Capital Punishment
by wretchedheartbreak
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy is the head of the Central Intelligence Agency, with an interesting undercover job of which is perfectly complimented by his main job.  Arthur Kirkland is a lowly law enforcement agent. When these two meet, it is anything but ordinary.
1. Chapter 1

**Name**: Capital Punishment

**Genre: **Action, Crime, Romance, Angst, Tragedy

**Pairings:** FrUK

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia is not mine. If it was, Canada would appear more.

**Summary**: Francis Bonnefoy is the head of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a rather _interesting_ undercover job of which is perfectly complimented by his main job. He is a family man, although the only family that remains for him is his fourteen-year-old, Matthieu. Arthur Kirkland is a lowly law enforcement agent, a nice way to say a "grunt police officer", and is vastly dissatisfied with his job. His ordinary life of grumbling abruptly grinds to a halt when he meets with one of the most _wanted_ (although unknown) men of all time.

* * *

><p>"… And with that, it seems that these underground activities have risen in level gradually over the past year. Of course, according to our sources, this is nothing more than a very rough estimate, but it cannot be denied that the number of… shall we say <em>incidences<em> are increasing steadily, much more so than is normally expected in a place like Louisiana. The roots of these sudden toll on murders are as of yet, still to be confirmed, but our superiors in the Office of Congressional Affairs would like us to investigate, if we can, any more on the matter. It is quite troubling and if recent research can prove it, there will be at least two five individual deaths per month within the course of the next six months. It is something that has caught even the President's attention – this is not a matter to be taken lightly, people."

He snorted. Cerulean eyes focused on his nails, which at that moment were being trimmed delicately with a nail filer. He noted with disdain when one specific nail, the one on his pinkie finger, stubbornly refused to be cut short into the perfect semicircular shape that he so willed it to be. In response, he raked down the metallic thing harder on the thing, grinding his teeth slightly at its stubbornness. In a battle of willpower and staring, well, no one could beat him, not even a _blasted fingernail._

The outburst had caught the attention of those seated around the oval table. There were about nine people seated – including himself – and one more extra that was the speaker. All eyes were now on him, their expressions a mingle of curiosity, suppressed laughter and irritation. Not that it mattered to him; weren't all eyes _always_ on him? He offered them all a quick scan, before nodding at them and resuming his habitual duty, as though nothing had ever happened.

A cough came from in front of them. "Ah, yes, Mr. Bonnefoy? Was there something you'd like to add?"

The man shook his head, looking as bored as he felt. "_Non_, _non_, please carry on."

"Right. Well, as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, we, as the panel, would love to hear more insight from someone such as yourself. I am sure you have been in contact with the Director of National intelligence. Would you care to add any more comments on the matter?"

Francis rolled his eyes, unsure of whether he ought to respond or not. The whole meeting up till that point had already passed by in an oh-so-lovely three hours. He hated meetings like these honestly, where all they did was pool their collective results in one go. Now, he would not have despised them so much had it not been for the fact that they were so drastically droll and depressing… much like the presentation that had just been delivered for them was. He would have much rather discussed the effects of alcohol in prostitute bars, to investigate just how many of them were able to bring a man home when intoxicated – or even whether or not the men _needed_ to be intoxicated to bring one of them home.

He smirked lightly to himself; it sure wouldn't take him a lot of convincing, he knew for one.

But really, this was just one of the more boring things about this place. He had just been promoted a few weeks ago due to a rather unfortunate incident involving the previous Director, which had involved an accidental trip down the Grand Canyon… with his body never to have been found. Yes, yes, it had been a rather depressing thing over all, but seeing as how this job was high-priority and fast-paced, they had immediately put his name up for a promotion, seeing his stellar record and punctual hours. Even _he _had been surprised by his own lack of tardiness and the whole fact that he would not only be given quite a hefty raise (he would rather not mention numbers for fear of being mobbed), to a point where, when he had been offered that letter in position rise, he had actually – he shivered at the memory – slammed down his nail filer in _mid-process_ to stare at the messenger's face incredulously and letting out a huge, "Quoi?"

But the adrenaline rush that had come hand-in-hand faded within a week or so, after noticing that all he really did differently was do more paperwork and sit in his office for longer periods of time. At least in his previous position, he had been allowed the freedom of flitting through the numerous stalls in wild abandon (what else for than to flirt with the insanely _hot _secretaries and their huge busts? Oh yes, Matilda down floor four stall number one hundred and thirty one by far). Now, he felt like a caged bird, and none more so than during these boring things they called _meetings_. They didn't even allow him to serve wine, for the love of God, and that right there just did it for him. Ever since he was refused his one true passion (aside from females, of course) he had instantly begun to spiral into a deep hatred for these things.

This would have explained why he had never spoken before, or at least attempted not to, but the presenter in front of them was giving him no choice. He sighed, deciding to go with the flow and at least _look _like the leader, instead of being more than an arrogant, pompous idiot.

Francis cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, I 'ave talked to 'ze National Intelligence last week, actually. As you 'ave said, 'e was razzer curious about 'ze sudden rise in death tolls, and so we chatted about 'eet a bit, _oui_. But we did nuzzin' more 'zan what you 'ave discussed up 'zere. 'E just gave us all a 'eads-up and 'zat 'ze military might act soon. 'E said, 'owever, not to let our guards down. 'Zat is all." He shrugged as if to prove his nonchalance, before settling back against his chair, legs propped up on the table.

Everyone stared at him uncertainly, but nevertheless nodded; did they have a choice? "Very well, thank you very much, Mr. Bonnefoy." He nodded dismissively, but said nothing more, his attention already back to his nails (literally) at hand. "And… I believe that concludes our meeting today, ladies and gentleman. As our Director has warned, just because you are part of this agency, does not mean you are immune to being killed. This is a harsh truth, but it is so. Please do be careful out there." The presenter then turned towards his higher-up, questioning. "Is… there anything you would like to add, sir?"

The male resisted the urge to just sigh and go on a wild rampage after being interrupted his little chore _again_, but thought better of it. After all, what would be his reputation like? Francis, the egotistical, unstable, charming ladies' man? No, no, he would have preferred Francis, the egotistical, resourceful, charming ladies' man. It definitely had a better ring to it.

He pretended to glance at the board and his notes carefully, as though contemplating on his next actions, but he knew very well what his answer was before it left his lips. With slow deliberation and fake pondering, he pursed his lips as though deep in thought, before waving his hand lazily at the general. "_Non_, 'zat is all, I believe. You are all dismissed."

Scraping of chairs as they were pushed back was audible within the small room, and people started murmuring as they chatted among themselves, nodding and discussing the results of the meeting. After all, this building was the only place they could talk about such highly confidential information; should they have been caught doing so outside, then they would have been instantly fired or fine, sometimes even both. Even last week, there had been such an incident occurring. His name was Roderich, a quiet fellow, someone that he had expected to be the _last _one to be fired. However, when he'd gone on a drinking binge, the poor man had absolutely no alcoholic resistance, and had thus blurted out all he knew about the Feliciano case to a nearby bartender. Said bartender had then proceeded to tell his wife, his friends, and slowly, the rumours had reached one of the workers in the agency, who had promptly reported it. He was out there quicker than the snap of a whip with a $5,000 fine for sharing top-secret information. Sad, really.

Francis took his time getting up, and just as he was about to leave the room, he was stopped by a touch on his shoulder, which he instinctively cringed back from. He was not used to such… _aggressive_ touching (save for the bed episodes, of course, but those were whole different story), and he couldn't help the devilish look that flashed his face for a second before he turned towards the owner of the hairy hand with a smile on his face. It was the presenter.

"Thank you for your input today, Mr. Bonnefoy," he started with a smile.

"Of course, of course. 'Zat is my job after all, _no_?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose." The man put his hand out, which Francis received gingerly (the disgusting _cooties_), shaking it briefly before letting go, and wiping it on the back of his shirt. "As you know, today was my last meeting, and I will be resigning this Friday. Thank you for having me here."

"Of course, of course, 'zat is no problem! You are always welcome to come back… Ah, _non_, wait, you are not. Silly me!"

"No, no, I understand that. Secrets are top priority, after all. Now, then…" he turned to leave, before he paused by the door again. Francis groaned internally; would no one leave him alone with his godforsaken nails? However, the sudden mumbling by the other had left him surprised, and he strained to hear the next words. "If you have some free time, Mr. Bonnefoy, would you like to have some coffee with me? The day's done and over with and…"

Francis grin exploded; so _that _was what that was all about? He moved forward, patting the other on the back in a friendly but far-too-informal manner. "Is 'zat all? Really, now, you should speak up! Well, normally, I would never decline something like a drink wiz' friends" – friends or lovers, he didn't care, of course, as long as they had cash to pay and a free night alone in a motel room – "but alas, today, I 'ave some urgent business to take care of. I do 'ope you understand, monsieur?"

The man just smiled and shook his head. "Yes, yes, of course, I understand. Are you going back home to your family?"

Francis giggled like a little schoolgirl at this question, before raising his pointer finger in front of his lips, winking at the other. "Now 'zat, my good man, is a secret."

The two shared a brief laugh, before they turned to leave the office. Francis stared at the empty room for a few seconds, before smiling to himself, flicking all the lights shut.

* * *

><p>He made his way down to the bottom of the office building, a rather large black twelve by twelve briefcase in his hand. Dressed from head to toe in a black trench coat that hovered all the way to the bottom of his knees, he greeted passer-by with a smile and nod, except of course for the females, which he granted with an extra wink, sending them giggling. Ah, the female presence was always so… <em>endearing<em>. They were so soft and… should he say squishy? They were so delicately fragile like roses, as though one wrong move could break them. He loved that, of course. He loved that way he could test their limits to see just how far they could go without something going horribly wrong, how far and fast he could push before they screamed in ecstasy –

He chuckled, shaking his head. No, no, he would save that for tonight. Right now, he had another job that needed doing.

As he broke out past the sliding doors, Francis glanced briefly around the sights and sounds. It was already five in the afternoon (usually, he would have left at seven in his previous position), but it was still light out, which was just as well. But of course, he already knew this, seeing as how he'd checked the weather and light in advance just for today. It was absolutely _essential_.

The streets of Louisiana were nothing but bustling, but he'd seen it far too many times to even spare it no more than a passing glance. It was far too repetitive, the honking of the cars and the shouts of angry civilians who had just been fired and were roaming the streets in hopes of a job. Not even the buildings could distract him; the sense of aesthetics had been lost in America, he could tell. At least, back home, everything was carefully built and handcrafted piece by piece, whereas here, it looked as though they had hired a giant toddler to put giant blocks together, paint it, and _voila_! It was a sorry excuse for a city, should he be able to say anything about it.

(Well, truth be told, he had attempted to drop in the local government office to demand a miniature Eiffel Tower be erected dead smack in the middle of the city. He hadn't understood why a.) they had booted him out and b.) why they did not do it. Freedom of speech, his beautifully shaped arse!)

Francis made his way towards a mansion off St. Charles Avenue; this place was full of rich people. Shrugging the coat closer to himself, he now pulled out a matching hat from the pocket, donning it on his head in an effort to conceal his bright mess of hair (which of course he hated; every second he was not getting attention was like having a fish out of water, its natural element). Upon arriving, he settled his eyes on a white, four-story mansion that had the perfect view of both the intersection and various alleyways. With no hesitation, he plucked the key he had "acquired" into the door knob, alighting the stairs until he was on top of the spacious veranda that occupied that whole top floor. Glancing to make certain that no one was around, he nodded satisfyingly to himself. The sources had been right; the family here left on Tuesdays and did not return until eight in the evening, during which time he would be long gone.

It was just as well.

Grimacing lightly to himself, the blonde made his way over to the edge of the roof, which was corralled with a cemented wall, tall enough for a person who was laying down to conceal himself. Perfect.

He sat, squatting, and pulled the briefcase closer to himself. Entering the ten-digit code, he unlocked it with two practiced hands, rapidly pulling the contents out of the bag and assembling them. He whistled when he finished; the M40A3 glinted in his hand.

"_Mon dieu_, you are something else, aren't you?" Without another word, he inserted the .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge that had been especially manufactured for it. Upon hearing the satisfying click of bullets and ammos, he rearranged himself into a laying position, a quarter of the tip of the sniping rifle visible, immobile.

Now, if his sources were right – and of course they were; it wasn't called the Central Intelligence Agency for nothing – the killer would be passing this alley in about five minutes, making his daily routines to check if there was anyone to possibly rape or kill. Francis was absolutely disgusted by this; what kind of idiotic, _barbaric_ male would treat a woman so roughly? (He was an exception to that, of course, because more often than not, they _wanted_ him to treat them roughly, to which he would of course, easily see through.) Not only was that enough of a motive for him to kill the bastard, but it was also his job. His… _other _job.

The male tensed, glancing through the scope with a 0.5 MOA, again, specially customized for himself. No sign of movement as of that moment, and it was silence save for the bustling cars.

Then the phone rang.

Jumping slightly, he pulled out his red cellphone from his coat pocket, glancing briefly at the phone number before smiling. Setting the gun down parallel to his body, he clicked the "Answer" button.

"_Papa_?" came a small voice.

Francis felt his heart explode; it was a voice that he heard every day, but still he had not grown tired of it, and he felt like he never would. It was just so pure, so angelic, and so… sadly he would admit, unlike himself. But the voice was _his_, and that was all that mattered.

"_Oui, mon petite ange_", the male replied heartily, still feeling light-hearted. "Why are you calling me at 'zis time? Should you not be asleep?"

"_Oui, Papa. __Je me demandais __quand __tu __rentrer à la maison_. "

"Mm, in about _trente _minutes. Are you alright by yourself?"

"_Oui, Papa. __Mais __peut __tu rentrez __bientôt__? __Je __veux __tu montrer __un dessin__que j'ai fait__à l'école__!__"_

"I will. But Papa has to go now, _oui_? I will be home soon."

"Okay, _Papa! Je t'adore!"_

"_Je t'adore trop, mon bien-aime _Matthieu._"_

The line went dead, and Francis pocketed the phone, feeling lightheaded. However, the feeling of euphoria did not last too long, before he spied movement within the rifle's scope. He smirked to himself; just as predicted, the bastard had arrived, and was lounging by the wall, smoking nonchalantly and waiting for an innocent victim.

Today was going to be his last.

After having propped up with rifle to its position, Francis stuck a finger in his mouth, wetting it before releasing it back into the air, calculating the wind flow direction and speed in one swift move. The distance to the target was approximately three hundred fifty meters. Obstructions, none. Target direction, southeast. Wind flow, south. Wind speed, five kilometres an hour. Rifle readjusted to compensate for wind resistance.

His gloved fingers – it was extremely vital not to leave fingerprints – wrapped themselves around the trigger, a blue eye looking through the scope, aimed dead center for the forehead.

_Un_, _deux_, _trois_. Boom.

The bullet launched itself at startling speeds, causing nearby civilians to jump at the dreaded but commonplace sound. Au contraire to others, the practiced man watched the bullet fly in slow motion, the winds parting ways violently for the volatile object, passing through nothing more than gaseous air.

Then it struck the target.

There was no sense of forewarning. Blood splashed openly from the gash where the bullet had struck; he had used the softest bullet possible so as to keep the lower half of his head intact. The upper skull, eyes, nose and upper facial features, were blown to smithereens, leaving nothing more than a bloody, half-decapitated corpse in its wake. The not-so-human being sprawled to the floor with a thud, a fountain of crimson sprouting from the top of his head.

Francis smirked at the job well done.

Standing up, he patted his hands together and, disassembling the rifle back to its components to stow in the bag, he hummed nonchalantly in his head, head waving to and fro in rhythm with the beat.

"_Je viens_, Matthieu."

* * *

><p>AN: So... holy crap, I finished this in two hours, and I am _super _excited. This is my first crime-based fic and I really hope you guys like it! I tried not to spoil too much in the summary, so I hope you can bear with that for now. As is mentioned, this will eventually be a FrUK fic, so please do not read if you dislike this pairing!

Honestly, I am so excited for this plot that I could not help but start it today (on the day of an exam, haha). But yes, please enjoy and please _please _give me feedback and reviews as to what I should change/improve. Thanks, everyone and lots of love!~ 3

Translations: (google, google, google, blame google)

_mon petite ange - _my little angel

_Je me demandais __quand __vous __rentrer à la maison _- I was wondering when you'd come home

_Mais peut vous rentrez bientôt? Je veux vous montrer un dessin que j'ai fait à l'école! _- But can you come home soon? I want to show you a drawing I did in school!

_Je t'aime trop, mon bien-aime - _I love you too, my beloved


	2. Chapter 2

Francis sat up against the red brick wall, panting. In one hand, he held his briefcase, filled with the disassembled parts of the sniping rifle, and in his other, was a Browning Hi-Power auto-loading pistol. It hung limply in his hand, cocked and armed to deliver the first shot should there ever be such a need. It would fire instantaneously enough, and it was not an action that would be foreign to the Frenchman.

But if only he hadn't found himself in a situation like this. He groaned mentally, slapping his forehead that was now beaded in the most _unsanitary _thing that could ever grace a human being: sweat. How had he found himself in this mess?

* * *

><p>The shot that rang throughout the small expanse of a neighbourhood was, indeed, usual enough, but apparently, that hadn't been enough to stop someone from calling 9-1-1. Francis had barely reached the door back to the veranda when the sound of police sirens alerted him. Now, he wouldn't have been opposed to being <em>caught<em>; no, wouldn't that have been the perfect chance to gain attention by having his luscious face plastered all over the media that night? But it was more so that he had promised a certain little someone his arrival, and he'd rather be dressed in a droll military outfit (he shuddered visibly at the thought) than break his promise to the little mister.

Thus, option A was not a viable one… well, at least as of that moment.

Francis sprinted through the door and back down the stairs. His mind began mentally calculating all the possible escape routes, but it all depended on one large factor: whether he would be caught or not the moment he stepped out of the building. He _tsk_ed to himself; now that wouldn't have been entirely fruitful. In his mind raced various images of the local map; if he could successfully walk about five feet in public view without being arrested, then he would be able to make his way down through the intricate alleyways and out to freedom. But on the other hand, if that wasn't possible, he would have had to take the _long_ way through the sewer system.

'_Mon dieu, let us 'ope it does not come to 'zat!_', he blanched internally. For God's sake, the trench coat was something imported straight from Paris itself, and it had been the latest fashion! May he be damned to infect such a beautiful piece of apparel with sewer odour and – he had to cover his lips to prevent himself from retching – rats. Oh, yes, how he hated those furry little creatures with beady, red little eyes. Something about them just gave him the chills.

But all that was conditional; it all decided on the matter of whether or not he'd be at gunpoint the moment he left the house. Francis grinned to himself; now wouldn't that have been such a lovely young mess? He was sure he could flirt his way out of it – after all, what woman could resist a charm like _his_ – but if only all of them were female. Honestly, if he had his way, all men would be the ones in maid uniforms staying home all day, cooking and cleaning, and the females would be running corporations and trades. He drooled; oh, sweet, sweet paradise.

He ran now, towards the front door, leaning against its frame and peering out the half-transparent window cautiously; no red and blue lights were swarming as of yet. This he took with a sigh of relief; well, that was one obstacle cleared. As nonchalantly as he could (that part he could do far too easily), he opened the front door, briefcase clamped tight in one bare hand (he had removed his gloves so as to look a little conspicuous in the warm weather), he locked the door with the other, before plunging the key into one coat pocket. With that, he whistled playfully, an aura of innocence around him.

But he hadn't even reached the last step of the porch when he found himself face-to-face with a wide-eyed, black-haired male. A male with glasses and an unusual cowlick up in the front of his face, his grey eyes opened in nothing more than sheer disbelief.

"_Francis_? Is that you?"

Francis stared hard at the other, knowing he had seen him _somewhere_ before. He slapped himself mentally; although men weren't exactly his bouquet of roses, he had to admit this one was rather gifted in the looks department, and he always, _always _knew beauties' names. It took a few seconds more of staring before the image and the name clicked.

"_Oui_, Roderich! 'Ow 'ave you been?"

"I've been quite fine, thank you…" Roderich stared at him uncertainly, eyeing his all-black outfit and briefcase. "This… this isn't your house, is it?"

Francis laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course not. I am… what do 'zey call it… "house-sitting"?

"I see…" He was still eyeing him warily, which made the Frenchman debate on knocking him out there and then to save the precious seconds that were already ticking by with having nothing accomplished. Luckily enough, the man had changed his point of view at the last minute. "Well, alright. Take care of yourself, will you? There are cops all over the streets. I think they're looking for someone. I have never seen the neighbourhood so shaken up." He shook his head, looking disappointed. "Just be careful, alright?"

The blonde merely nodded, walking past the man with a smile on his face and wink passed. "_Moi_? I am _always _careful, _mon ami_. _Adieu!_"

Francis cursed internally; well, at least he hadn't been apprehended yet, but upon glancing at his watch, he'd noted that five minutes had already passed. He began to walk more rapidly, steps clacking onto the pavement rhythmically, his eyes the color of the sky warily looking to and fro for any sign of the police sirens. He had just about reached the four-foot mark, slightly relieved, when he heard the sounds of other footsteps trailing him. Just as he was about to dismiss it for another passer-by, it spoke.

"Sir, I'm going to have to see what's in that suitcase."

And that was when he ran.

Despite the shouts of protests and commands for him to cease, Francis ran, now ducking through the alleyways like a mastermind. The officer pursued him, but it was obvious when the other footsteps rang away that he had gotten himself lost in the intricate maze. The victory was to him – but, of _course_ – but he still found himself running and weaving through the maze. It was not only until he reached the last fourth of the way to his freedom did he stop to take a break.

He hadn't noticed that he'd been doing _actual _exercise.

* * *

><p>Now he sat there, panting, armed in the case that anyone should ever come. At this point, the maze could only provide the option of going forward; if someone found him here now, the only choice would be to shoot. The alleyways were much too narrow and filled with too many obstacles to attempt an agile escape.<p>

Just as he was about to get his heart in order (he groaned bitterly to himself; the last time he had _this _much of a pulse was three nights ago in Motel Cordial, with a certain blonde whose busts were almost visibly larger than his head… but at least _then _it had been satisfying!), his phone rang once more, to which he hastily answered. The silence in the alleyways was rigid, selfish. Any noise that broke it would be sent every which way, and he would be immediately found.

"'_Allo_?" he said, almost hissed, into the phone.

A bright voice blasted down the phone, ringing in the hollow, dead quiet space. "Hola! ¿Como estás, mi amigo?"

Francis sighed, before staring at the like it was some sort of alien. Of all the times he had to call, did it _have_ to be now? "Antonio! I am sorry, but right now is… not 'ze best time. I am in 'ze middle of 'ze "chase", as Americans call it."

"Oh, I see. Forgive me, por favor. Pero… the higher-ups wanted to me to check up on you… Did you finish the mission?"

"'Oo do you 'sink I am? Of course, I did!"

"Bueno", the voice on the line said shortly. "Well, whenever you're done, there is another mission for you. … Well, good luck!" Then the line went dead.

"Anto-" Francis sputtered, before tucking the phone back in his pocket. Leave it to his "friend" to ditch him in the times of crisis. He shook his head, resisting the urge to throw the phone at the wall.

Or, he would have, had it not been for the click of a very familiar weapon. He gulped, before turning cautiously towards the sound, eyes widening in surprise with a tinge of fright as he found himself held at gunpoint.

Now, a variety of things can go through a person's mind when they know that they are either going to be shot, or die (which really, to him, was redundant because if someone was pointing a gun to your head, that would more than likely lead to the latter). Someone could be thinking of their life; one of those clichéd "I saw my life flash before my eyes" moments. Someone could also be questioning the satisfaction of their life; they could be wondering if they had really gone through their bucket list and that why, oh, why, did they not even write up said bucket list in the first place? But, someone could also be thinking about the last thing they said to someone dear and near to them; they could be regretting slamming the door on their faces or be satisfied that they had exchanged some glorious lovemaking that day (to which he could easily empathize with, of course). But to someone like Francis, there was only one thought that ran around his mind like a rampant chimpanzee that was in dire need of a tranquilizer.

_S'il vous plait_, not the face.

His eyes widened at this realization. If he had to go, really, he had to go. Of course, he vastly regretted not being there for his petite Matthieu; he felt a pang of pain in his chest as he pictured his little one's anguish and innocence at where his Papa could have gone. But just a notch above that was the feeling of vanity. If he died, he wanted to, at the very least, _look _good. He didn't want to be one of those victims where their faces were so beat up or blasted open that no one could even recognize them anymore. No, he wanted to be beautiful when he died. He wanted to at least, if anyone should remember him (to that he scoffed; but of course _everyone _would remember him), to remember him with an image of his perfectly sculpted face that he thought was God's gift to the earth. After all, who could resist such a handsome face as his?

A voice interrupted his little mind rant, the tenor of which made him snap up to attention. "Sir, put down the gun, and put your hands up where I can see them."

Francis glanced up for the first time, his eyes having been far too trained on the gun to pay attention to anything else. He was struck with the vision of a brunette, biting her lip nervously. However, her aura of nervousness was overshadowed by the determined look in her eye, frowning and holding the gun as steadily as she could at what would appear to her to be the criminal they were looking for. Now again, two things were going on in the Frenchman's mind, namely, "I am going to _kill _that Espagnol" and "Would you like to join me tonight, mademoiselle?"

But he shook his head; maybe _now_ wasn't the best time, considering her rigid posture. It would seem that it would only take a minute wrong move for her to blast his head to smithereens which, obviously, was not the better option.

"Sir, I said now. Please put the gun down and slide it towards me slowly."

Francis did nothing more than continue the eye contact, considering his options. After a few seconds of deliberation, he set the gun on the ground, before sliding it slowly towards the female. The policewoman scooped down swiftly, keeping the gun pointed in the middle of his eyes, grabbing the gun and placing it in her now empty holster.

"Now, I'm going to have to get you to put your hands up, sir."

He did so. Quickly, she placed her gun on top of a trash can, moving over to the man. With two _clink_ing sounds, the Frenchman found himself in handcuffs. He chuckled to himself; oh, the irony. He hadn't thought he'd be caught so quickly, and especially not by a woman, of all things. But of course, the devilish part of his brain was already concocting several escape routes. The fact that she was a woman was perhaps the largest advantage in his arsenal.

She roughly pulled him upwards (oh-la-la, so she liked rough, did she?) into a standing position, keeping a firm grip on his hands that were now forced behind him. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law." She began to recite the Miranda warning, to which Francis merely rolled his eyes at. Honestly, did they still _actually_ say that? It sounded oh-so-cliché, and so reality-TV. But he shrugged, taking a deep breath as he slowly set his plan in motion.

"'Zere is no need to worry, mademoiselle. I would not dream of ever going against anything _you _say," he began in the most suave voice he could manage, which of course, was not difficult.

"P-please keep quiet, sir. I would like to ask you to cooperate with me until you get to my car. You will be taken down to the station for questioning."

"Ah, but of course. But… ah, you know, I could not 'elp notice 'zat you seem razzer nervous. Would you like to talk to me about it?"

There was the cocking of the gun, the cold metal now pressed firmly onto the back of his neck. "Sir, please _shut your trap_."

Francis chuckled. "Eh, maybe after 'zis 'ole thing is over, you and I… 'zere is 'zis quaint little café by my 'ouse." He half-turned to her, waggling his eyebrows. "What do you say, mademoiselle?"

She cringed back, pressing the gun closer to his neck. "N-no, thank you."

"But madam, look at me. Do I seem like I am _un _criminal?" He flashed her a small smile; it was only a matter of time.

"U-um…" She hesitated, lowering her gun and eyeing him warily. It was only a second, but it was the opening he was looking for.

With practiced agility, he twisted his body to face her, one leg kicking up to pry the gun away from her hand, which flew behind him and fell with a loud clang. Stunned from the display, Francis took advantage of the moment by moving up against her, pressing her back towards the alley wall, where she stood, trembling. He slid his cheek down her own smooth, supple flesh, inhaling her rose-scented perfume as though it was his very oxygen.

"Now, now, mademoiselle," he started, purring into the nape of her neck, a seductive tone laced in his voice. "I do not mind 'ze forceful type, you see. But… you know, I would prefer it to be on a much… softer venue, would you not agree?" Pouting his lips, he pressed them softly against her neck, causing a shiver to pass through her body. "Come on… what would you prefer, going back to a stuffy office, or a soft bed wiz' _moi_?" He pulled back, now staring at her chocolate eyes, now widened in nervousness – all traces of anger and hostility gone. Flashing her his signature smile, he asked, "What do you say, mademoiselle?"

She shivered again, gulping, before nodding her head.

Check, and mate.

* * *

><p>The door slammed open, causing a gust of air to rush through.<p>

"Matthieu, I am 'ome." Francis called out to the house in general. He was met with silence for a few seconds, before it was interrupted by the soft padding of footsteps that were in a rush. Taking his coat off, he gestured for his company to come in, whilst hanging his outerwear on the nearby rack. When he turned back around, he was caught by a vice-like grip on his lower torso.

"_Papa, papa! __Je tu manquès!_" The younger boy grinned, looking up at his father with nothing more than childlike innocence that most would have already lost at his age. His indigo eyes were as astounding as always, his hair primped and done graciously just like Francis had instructed him to. It was a different feeling from when he'd heard the voice over the phone. Back then, his heart had melted, but right now, it felt as though he could melt into a puddle and remain that way all day long.

He chuckled, bending down and placing a kiss atop the male's head, causing him to blush vaguely. "_Désolé __pour le retard_, Matthieu. I 'ad some… trouble." He glanced behind him, smiling.

"_Non, non, il est bon._" He followed his father's glance with curious eyes. Behind him stood a chocolate-haired female, nervous in her posture but otherwise slightly comfortable in the homey abode. Matthieu smiled, running up to her and pulling on her shirt lightly. "_Papa, Papa, est-elle ma nouvelle mama?_"

Francis froze slightly, before shaking his head. "_Non_, she is my… 'ow shall I say it… _mon ami."_ It was really odd; him bringing home various women every night was something more of a routine than it was a surprise, so even Matthieu hadn't questioned it any more. However, Matthieu's innocent question had also become routine, but it was something that Francis could easily dismiss with a laugh and a shake of his head. For some reason, today, it had given him pause. But of course, it must have been from the long day, he reasoned. His senses were not as acutely trained after his "mission", owing to his slower reflexes.

Yes, that must have been it.

Matthieu seemed to have found the answer valid enough, before he nodded and returned to his father's side, tugging on his sleeve. "_Voulez-vous regarder __mon dessin maintenant?" _The male merely chuckled, ruffling through his hair playfully.

"_Oui, oui, _lead the way." To the female, he turned, flashing her a white smile. "Mademoiselle, if you would like to freshen up, 'ze bathroom is 'ze first door on 'ze right up 'ze stairs. 'Zen… you can get comfortable in 'ze bedroom… right next to it. 'Zat is fine, _oui_?" Still in a bit of a daze, the female nodded, before ascending the stairs. Francis glanced quickly at her retreating figure, brows furrowed, before he proceeded to follow his son into the kitchen.

Matthieu jumped up and down excitedly, before bringing a twelve by twelve white sheet up to his father, practically shoving it into his face. Francis pried it carefully away from his son's eager fingers, glancing at it.

It was a painfully artistic drawing; he really should enrol his son in an art school in the future. It depicted his classroom, with the seats and tables and the teacher drawn in in blurs. The only clear figures were that of two drawings towards the center of the paper, two smiling faces that stood out to him above all else. One of it was Matthieu; that much he could tell from the vivid purple eyes and the interestingly curled cowlick upon his face, not to mention the polar bear that was held in his hands. However, it was the figure to his right that made Francis frown in confusion; why had Matthieu drawn himself twice?

The drawing looked to be exactly similar to his son's own image of himself, but with a few subtle differences. One, for example, were the hue of his eyes, which were that of a deep, sky blue. He pursed his lips; who was it? Atop the drawing was the phrase "M + A" scribbled in roughly.

"Matthieu, 'oo is 'zis?" he asked, pointing to the random figure.

"Oh! _Il est le __petit nouveau __dans ma classe._"

"Ah… _intéressante._" He turned back to his son, who was still awaiting criticism. "Very good, as usual, Matthieu. I am proud of you."

"_Merci,__ Papa!_" He grinned, before pulling the paper back and running up the stairs. "_Je vais __dormir maintenant__! __Bonne __nuit!"_ With that, he dashed off.

Francis frowned, but said nothing more. He shrugged, before running his fingers through his glossy hair, his mind now tuned to a whole other frequency, one that encompassed him, a bed, and a whole new playmate. He grinned to himself; oh, what would he do without women?

* * *

><p>After three hours of sensual pleasure, Francis found himself staring up at the canopy of his bed, reliving the memories of that night. The female nuzzled next to him dreamily, a look of contentment on her face. The Frenchman smirked; but, of course she was content. It <em>was <em>him, after all, and there no other man better in bed than he. His fingers crawled up and down her bare back, recalling his firm grip on her hips, the way she ached for more as she repeatedly pulled herself closer to him. She was a clingy one, he noticed, someone of sexual inadequacy, to which of course, he was just much too glad to oblige. Her chocolate-coloured hair fell in tufts around her forehead, and he sighed as he remembered these locks wildly thrashing about as they pressed their bodies closer together, closer, tighter… and faster. She had screamed in ecstasy at the last minute, before she collapsed, panting, on his torso. She was… satisfying.

But why then, he thought to himself as he continued to stare at the roof, did it not feel like that?

He groaned, rubbing his hands on his face. That had to be it.

"_Papa, Papa, est-elle ma nouvelle mama?"_

* * *

><p>AN: So, I think this'll be updated pretty frequently because, holy crap, do I have muse for it. Here's a continuation of the previous chapter, which I HAD to show because it shows you more of Francis' character and his daily life (as if we didn't already know _;). This was also longer than my previous chapter, which I didn't even notice, haha. Sorry if it seems like fluff, but it is important!

Also... GUESS WHO'S MAKING AN APPEARANCE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER? /shot (read: the story's other main character)

As a side note, anyone who can decipher that drawing gets cookies.

And... that was all! Thanks to the reviewers, and someone's anonymous review about correcting the French. Honestly, if you guys think it needs correcting, please do so. I only use Google and even I don't trust it entirely. Feel free to tell me the corrections in a review or message! Also, if you can, please review! They are always welcome.

Now more translations: (courtesy of Google)

_Je tu manquès _- I missed you

_Désolé __pour le retard _- Sorry for the delay

_Non, non, il est bon _- No, no, it's ok

_est-elle ma nouvelle mama? _- is she my new mother?

_Voulez-vous regarder __mon dessin maintenant? _- Will you look at my picture now?

_Il est le __petit nouveau __dans ma classe _- It is the new kid in my class.

_Je vais __dormir maintenant _- I'll sleep now


	3. Chapter 3

**Shout Outs: **I'd really like to thank everyone who favourited this story, as well as those who subscribed for alerts! But I would really love it more if you guys gave me insight by writing a review so I can improve and whatnot... please? c: Even just a sentence would be fine; criticism is an author's best friend!

But in regards to reviews, thank you to _Readers-Section _for still following along and giving me another review (thanks so much!). And for your awesome guess, you get cookies. /gives cookies As for the humour thing, I am sad to have the humour of a doorknob, so that is definitely a compliment for me. Glad to know it isn't so dried up like a prune! Also to XxCapturetheLightxX, thanks! And feel free to translate if you wish, I don't want to add trouble, haha.

I decided to "reply" to reviews here. This way, if any questions arise that others may want to know answers to, I don't have to PM everyone. And now, without further adieu...

* * *

><p><em>Flash.<em>

The bright glint of the sleek, black camera blinded him temporarily, and he grumbled internally, not daring to say anything. Considering his position, it wasn't exactly in his best interest to complain… not to mention, he was in a rather _uncompromising_ situation, one of which everyone had either dutifully ignored or remained blissfully aware of. Instead then, he took the time to survey the contents of the room, all the while rubbing his eyes gingerly as white spots flashed in front of his vision.

It was a spacious house – no, mansion would have been a better word to suit it – and it was keenly kempt just as much as his own was. The living room, which extended straight into the kitchen and dining room, was immaculately spotless, something of which brought a shy smile on to his lips. The plates and various china were placed in their routine places, and the dishwasher was still humming its boring tone while the television blasted on about the news of a killing in the neighbourhood area (as if he didn't already know, he huffed to himself).

All in all, there was just the air and sense of normalcy, save for a few key factors.

One, there was yellow tape marked all over the entrance to the upstairs bedrooms and veranda, clearly marked with "Police Line: Do Not Cross" repetitively. With that, he rolled his eyes; what sort of incompetent moron would even so much as dare as peek up the stairs when there were guards situated in every corner? It was redundant and highly unnecessary, something that was too much of a hassle for him to even complain about, so he let that go.

Two, there were yellow cones with respective numbers in different parts of the house. They were situated in various places that were highly suspect in having been "involved with the criminal". '_Oh yes, because the countertop is an accomplice in the murder_', he thought bitterly. Sometimes these cones were placed in more suitable areas, such as on the stairs where they could possibly search for footprints, or by doors where they could search the doorknobs for fingerprints. However, the majority of them had been sited ridiculously atop a myriad of objects of which he could tell had absolutely _no _relevance to the crime. He felt as though a toddler could have done a better job.

And three, if one happened to glance by the front porch, there were throngs of people – namely the media – attempting to shove their way in, attempts which would have been successful had it not been for the two burly security guards at the door, both somewhat albino in hair colour with startling purple eyes. Their figures were massive, bulky, and they emanated auras of maliciousness and… well, death. Even he knew it was a smart enough move not to even talk to them, let alone attempt to shove their way through. The only consolation to him in the hectic scene was the fact that he hadn't been the one assigned for "entrance duty". He would have already surely been mobbed by the crazed news people… not that he would ever admit that to anyone but himself.

He was… relatively well-built, right?

"Hey, are you listening to me?"

A gruff voice interrupted his reverie, and Arthur blinked rapidly for a few seconds before turning his attention to the frowning, heavily moustached gentleman in front of him. He was crouched down, the camera shining sleekly in his hands. He hadn't even noticed that he had gone off into la-la land (where he usually was, it was the only way to escape this crude and boring reality) until someone forcefully popped his metaphorical bubble.

"Ah, ah, yes sir."

The cameraman sighed, shaking his head as though this was a daily occurrence, which of course, it was. Arthur waited mutely, daring him to say anymore, and it looked like the other was about to, until he shook his head once more as though thinking better of it. The blonde smiled to himself; at least _someone_ knew when was and wasn't the right time to get involved into an argument.

"Right, whatever. Go get me some more of these cones, will you? They're upstairs by the veranda."

"At once, _sir_", he replied bitterly, before turning on his heel and trekking up the stairs in a huff. Since when had he, Arthur Kirkland, been so degraded to a point that he was nothing more than a mere errand boy? Where had the times gone when he was one of the leading detectives in homicidal investigations, always being on the scene of the crime just mere minutes or hours after it had happened? Where had the times gone when _he_ was the one barking orders to some lack-wit who was so utterly incompetent that he often ended up performing all the tasks himself? Where had the times gone when he could sit comfortably at his own office (yes, oh how he longed for those days) and take his sweet time doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted?

Where in the blazes had his _dignity_ gone?

To all those questions that he shot at towards himself, he had no answer. It could have been attributed to a great many things, theories which he ransacked in his head as he ducked below the police tape and made his way up the stairs, emerald eyes surveying the scene before him. All he could do was face the metaphorical blank wall that stood in front of him and his answers, as well as the more literal wall that kept him from a more exciting life. He bit his tongue; was there really a point in harbouring grudging feelings for the good old days? He couldn't even so much as analyze _what_ he had done wrong. All he knew was that one day, he had just successfully wrapped up a case and slammed a serial rapist, and the next, he was being booted out of his office and being told to "get his arse off his proverbial high horse and look for another damn job."

Right, positive thoughts.

He had finally reached his desired destination, or so, that was the only logical explanation. By the open expanse of the veranda, he was able to spot the neon yellow colour of the cones. With a sigh, he walked forward, running his hands through his hair. He crouched down, picking up a hefty few, just in case his beloved supervisor decided that ten wasn't enough and sent him once more on a pointless errand to a place that was only _fifteen _steps away from where they were investigating. Because, as everyone knew, it was impossibly difficult to go up the stairs and grab the cones for themselves. No, that required the help of a self-deprecating British man who had just fallen down on his luck.

_Way_ down, on his luck, he could recount.

It was in the process of returning down the stairs (rather grudgingly) that he spotted a black lump in the middle of the veranda floor. It was easily discernible due to the nature of its contrasting colour with the light beige around it, but also due to the fact that there was an absurd lack of items to conceal it with. The veranda was just much too spacious (what could _anyone_ possibly do with this? He would have categorized it to be nothing more than a waste of space), and it was no wonder that the killer (they had all assumed that by the bullet plucked from… the "body" – if it could be called that – had been from a sniper) could have possibly chosen this spot. Not only was it superbly advantageous due to its clear sight of everything, but the people who lived in the mansion were complete dolts and _asses_, and so no one would have ever thought to give the place a second thought. But apparently, the killer had.

Arthur approached the lump, frowning until he was close enough to be able to distinguish its properties. Hesitantly, he poked it with a barbecue stick, and upon finding that it was, in fact, _not_ a bomb or some sort of mutated sewer rat, he picked it up.

It was a black leather glove.

Had the killer accidentally left it? That was highly probable, and any sort of clue towards the investigation was worth keeping around. After all, he had been the top analytical mind back home (until of course, some unfortunate mishap), and he was thankful that he possessed some background to the whole matters of investigations and crime scenes that he wasn't entirely thrown for a loop. Gingerly, he held it in one of his gloved fingers, cradling the cones in the other.

He descended, handing the cones to his supervisor who at that point, was half-hidden the table, taking pictures of its underneath in the possible case that the culprit might have left some clue. He snorted to himself; right, because it was highly likely that the culprit had taken his precious time in cooking himself a homemade meal before killing someone. Oh yes, that was sure to be appetizing indeed.

The barely audible sound alarmed the gentleman enough to extricate himself from the table, looking for the source of the noise. His eyes first landed on the cones that were now set aside, nodding. Arthur patiently waited for the gratitude that never came, but it was just as well. He was nothing more than the lowest police grunt around here, having just been hired a few months back. But still, was _decency_ not a word in the American language? Was it really such a task to say "thank you" and be on one's merry way? He would have thought not, but apparently, Americans thought otherwise.

Just as he was about to hand the man the other piece of evidence he had obtained (in hopes again, of getting at least _one_ hint of praise), his supervisor gasped. His deep brown eyes widened in fright as he stared square on his chest, causing the blonde to jump backwards, looking at his own torso for whatever hint of abomination the man had so suddenly seen so as to warrant such a reaction. When he found none, he looked up at the man, questioning, but the supervisor was still too frozen in his spot to do anything more than open and close his mouth stupidly like a fish out of water.

"S-sir?" He snapped his fingers in front of the other, which apparently was enough for the still statue to resume movement. Unfortunately enough, said movement was his finger pointer raised straight to the man's torso, which once again, completely confused the Brit.

"Wh-what… wh-why are you…?" The supervisor stuttered, and the way he did so unnerved even him. Arthur had never seen the man so shaken in all the years of his life working under him (which would have made it, really, approximately a year), and all the times that it had happened usually led to some sort of unfortunate death or gruesome killing. He hoped to high heaven it wasn't some omen of his own impending doom.

"Sir, please speak up."

"Whyareyoucoveredinblood?"

Arthur strained to hear, his expression muddled with confusion and irritation. That could _not_ have been a word in the dictionary.

"WHY. ARE. YOU. COVERED. IN. BLOOD?"

The blonde merely blinked, staring at his supervisor as though a tree had started sprouting out of his head. His expression, having been jumbled, was now contorted into one of sarcasm, a "are-you-kidding-me?" look. Folding his arms and looking down at his supervisor that was still somewhat hidden under the table top, he replied smoothly, "Sir, I have looked like this since I entered the building." '… But thanks for noticing', he remarked internally, scathingly.

Of all the thirty minutes they had spent at the crime scene, _now_ the man noticed? For some reason, the blonde had an almost uncontrollable urge to kick the man in the face and leave the scene. The only thing that stopped him was the possibility of being fired, and being possibly forced to move his family… again. He couldn't do that to them a second time, and so with the utmost restraint that was almost saint-like, he corrected his expression into one of innocent bewilderment, a composure that had apparently left his supervisor.

"Wh-what? No, impossible! I would have seen it! Wh-wha-?" he spluttered, unable to keep his eyes off the large crimson stain that littered the blonde's blue uniform. "What… _happened_?"

Arthur merely sighed, rubbing his temples. It was a story he would rather not recall.

* * *

><p>Having been assigned neighbourhood watch wasn't exactly the most thrilling of jobs. But when it came right down to it, he supposed he should have been thankful. Some other grunts were often made to do heinous chores, such as cleaning the bathrooms because the station was far too <em>cheap<em> to hire actual janitors and custodial staff. In the long run, he hadn't received the worst end of the stick, which was more than he could say for Lovino, his loud-mouthed and temperamental co-worker.

That day, nothing was supposed to happen, as nothing ever _did_. Despite having one of the highest crime rates in America, it was disturbingly peaceful. Vandalism was often too commonplace and much too uncontrolled in this area, so the police had taken to neglecting the youngsters who they often caught in action. It was far too much work for them, and by now, if anything, they would already have had half the town in jail. In terms of actual mugging and killing, the criminals were at least "empathizing" enough (he scoffed) not to commit such atrocities in daylight. That being said, and given the fact that it was still quite early, he hadn't expected anything of significance to come running into the monumental garbage heap that was his life.

In the end, he hadn't been wrong. But it was more like it had come bulldozing into his life. Plus the bulldozer.

He had been glancing at his watch occasionally, wondering when on earth he would be put out of his misery (or at the very least, have his shift end), when he happened along a dark alleyway. At this point, he wasn't even quite sure _how_ he had ended up in a rather dingy part of town, but if he had to admit to himself, everything about the town was dingy. Even the droll weather of England was less disheartening than this.

As he pondered on backtracking, he was met with the audible sounds of someone chuckling. Immediately, his trained reflexes sprung into action, and Arthur found himself pressed against the brick walls. Cautiously, he peered over the corner from where he had heard the sound emanating. Sure enough, there was indeed another occupant, and he could immediately conclude that what _anyone_ could be doing here – and laughing, nonetheless – was certainly up to no good. Not only was the stranger's presence and location suspicious enough, but there was a glint by his belt indicating a half-concealed weapon.

Definitely up to no good.

Arthur inched closer, eyes narrowed in suspicion, his own gun cradled in his fingers in preparation. He examined his course of actions. He could call for back-up now, but there were far too many possible repercussions, two of which instantly came to mind. One was that, if he was mistaken and it was nothing more than a drunkard enjoying his sweet time and soaking in the scenery, his credibility in the force would decrease (he snorted; as if he even _had _any to begin with). Two was that, due to the sheer silence in the alleys, even him whispering might be heard, and that would just not bode well. The only conclusion he reached then, was to apprehend the criminal himself, then do a quick interrogation.

He had to soak in whatever pride he had left, after all.

Half-walking and half-crouching, he darted around the corner, concealing himself perfectly behind a large dumpster. The man was on a phone, chattering away with his back to him. Frowning and taking advantage of the situation, the blonde tentatively crept up behind him, his gun pointed at the man with his arms extended. He had been just about a foot away from the man when something caused him to jump out of his skin… almost literally.

There was the sound of a gun. Momentarily dazed, he looked back at his gun; no, he had not shot. But there was no time for interrogation, before he was splattered with a warm, sticky liquid, which immediately caused him to blanch instinctively. However, upon closer inspection of the random fluid, it required almost all of his willpower not to hurl.

It had taken him a second or two, his brain unbelieving to what his eyes were seeing. Painted all over him was crimson, crimson… and more crimson. Emerald eyes grew wider each second, uncomprehending. They thrashed wildly, before finding a crumpled mass of something just before his feet.

It was a body… or at least, a half-decapitated one.

Bile rose up in his stomach, and Arthur backed up a few steps, before turning around and retching. His body shivered, despite the cool winds that delicately tickled his exposed skin. Sick, he felt sick. A shudder passed through him, before an arm shot out towards the wall – the only thing that kept his balance. He breathed heavily, in gasps, head bowed down as he stared at his own vomit, eyes uncomprehending. From his shirt dripped the deep red liquid rhythmically, splashed all over his uniform. Free arm shakily rising, he wiped his mouth, his teeth chattering. He felt as though a fever was coming. He felt nauseous. He felt dizzy. He felt confused.

He felt anything but fine.

Arthur dared not look back at… the "remains", his mind reeling at the image that had been plastered in it, and he lurched forward to retch some more. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and his breathing became more erratic, more irregular.

_What had he just seen?_

* * *

><p>"I-… I'd rather not discuss that matter, sir," Arthur murmured, his eyes glazing over slightly.<p>

After he had sufficiently recovered from the incident, he had then been called on to assist with the investigation regarding the murder, of which they suspected had been done by a sniper. This was the supposed crime scene, and in his rush and prior absence of mind, he had arrived without so much as cleaning his shirt; he had only had the presence of mind to wipe it off his face and flesh, but he feared that the clammy feeling that had been incited would always be there. It had been a traumatic incident – that much being an understatement – but he had recovered. Or, at least, he had recovered sufficiently enough to keep his mind on the current task; there was no doubt he would have nightmares tonight.

And that was how he had arrived at the scene, with no one so much as noticing… until apparently, _now._ He wasn't sure if he should have been pissed or thankful (that way, no one would bug him with silly questions).

The supervisor remained frozen, but accepted his words. "R-right, then. We'll carry on with the investigation, but for the love of God, _change your shirt_, man."

Arthur smirked, before nodding and making his way out the door. There was the good old (useless) supervisor he knew and loved (and hated).

* * *

><p>AN: Erm... LOL, I don't... I don't even know, guys. It took me a while because... I couldn't quite get a hang of Arthur's personality, especially because he still does have a vain side to him, but not the level Francis has. I had to brainstorm and... stuff, yeah. So please, _please_ kindly review on his personality and on what you think I should do to improve it?

And yeah! If you haven't figured it out, this was the guy getting sniped... and Arthur just so _luckily_ happens to be there, poor guy. He's going to be through a lot more trauma though, specially when Francis comes in, heehee.

That was all for now!~ Please read and review, and I hope you enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Shout Outs: **So here come the next shout-outs! And yes, I will do this every time because it makes me happy when you guys review; they do give me muse! So here's a general thank you to all my reviewers and all the subscription alerts and favourites. I'm so glad!

To _PrussianAwesomeness_, yes, we must all empathize with the poor man. He deserves it... sadly. v.v To _XxCapturetheLightxX_, ahaha, yes! I personally think I'm giving myself hell by putting in French and British at once, especially since I'm not familiar with either of the both... XD But yes, remember that picture because it will be important in later chapters! Also, there's a picture for you to see at the bottom A/N, so check it out! To _Readers-Section_, once again, thanks for reviewing! Yes, yes, I do agree with that, but sometimes the line between vanity and pride are sometimes blurred, at least I think so. And here's your little slice of the two meeting; they just love each other, don't they? Ahaha! To _Deemo_, yes, I do notice that, but I was unsure in that I think Arthur can be a "gentleman" when he's not being irritated, but in this chapter, well, he definitely is irritated with a certain frog, lawl. To _kuroNshiro_, thank you very much for the compliments! I do hope you continue reading along! As for _Reviewer_, thank you very much. I do try, and I agree with that perfectly, haha. That's what I had in mind. And now, cookies for everyone!

Now I shall be quiet and let you all read.

* * *

><p>"The news of the recent murder of serial killer and rapist Morgan Fuego has Louisiana police authorities baffled. Morgan Fuego, a thirty-year-old Caucasian male, has been suspected of five murders and three raping incidents of various women. He had been able to evade authorities for almost a year. However today, a decapitated body of the serial killer and rapist has been found in an alleyway, with no evidence of who killed him, but only what. Ballistic analysts found that he had been shot from a variable distance, and was suspected to have been killed by a far-range shooter or sniper. Authorities are currently investigating the crime scene, but so far, no leads have been disclosed as of yet."<p>

Images flashed in the background, but those that had been centered around the actual murder scene had been censored – "softened" he could call it – and there were people being interviewed around both that location and the mansion where they had just been a few hours ago. He could scoff at this; the interviews weren't particularly informative. It was more of a personal opinion debate than anything else. Comments like "it was horrible" or "I heard a gunshot while I was walking my dog" hardly seemed like anything the police or the public wanted to know. He resisted the urge to repeatedly smack his head on the table that now lay in front of him, silent, as though internally snickering at his misfortune. In turn, he offered it only a scowl, which he quickly removed; it was just wonderful how he was not only invisible, but now, he was going insane. But then again, that was probably what his coworkers wanted; none of them seemed to particularly enjoy his company and if anything, he would admit that yes, that feeling was indeed mutual. But honestly, if they needed a damn witness, then they should have called _him. He _had been the one to witness the scene firsthand, although reliving such a thing for the sake of popularity wasn't exactly his forte. Reliving such a thing for information… well, still not a viable option. Just reliving the whole thing sent shivers up his spine; he was quite certain he would experience some nightmares tonight.

Oh, how wonderfully exciting.

Arthur sat on his assigned desk down at the police station, fingers drumming the table top rhythmically as he stared at the ongoing news. He couldn't help but reminisce about the crime scene investigation that had just been terminated a few hours ago, due to the fact that the media was getting rather rowdy, and that there was a distinct lack of any sort of hard evidence to pin this on anyone. The only thing that reported any sense of substantial progress was the fact that they confirmed that the house was indeed the location of the shooter. This, he knew, was a no-brainer, and he had to strongly resist the urge to roll his eyes in front of the media when the lead investigator had delivered a statement.

There was gun residue on the rooftop, the door was unlocked, and there were fresh footprints glazed over on the carpet floor. How much more obvious could one get?

Of course, the final piece of the puzzle had been the black glove he had confiscated back at the crime scene. At the last minute, he had decided against handing it to his supervisor, both as an act of defiance to the man who had just so "fortunately" noticed after two whole hours that he had been covered in blood, and as a lead-in to his own possible investigation. There was no way that he trusted these stupid fools for something as serious as this; when it came down to justice and his job within the police force, he was not a force to be reckoned with. Plus, this provided him with the perfect opportunity to regain the name he had once lost. Of course, there was always the risk of being questioned and reprimanded for having withheld an important clue, but honestly, he couldn't have cared less. Pompous idiots were all around him; would they really have noticed that a thing or two was missing?

But of course, they would not.

Sighing, Arthur took out said glove, tossing it up and down in his right hand, emerald eyes following the movement as the inanimate object repeatedly defied, then lost, to gravity. He had taken care to further analyze the piece of clothing himself for any fingerprints of the sort, using some materials he had "borrowed" from the crime scene investigation team (really, would a couple of brushes and powder be missed in the grand scheme of things? He would like to think not). It had come out negative, leading him to huff in indignation and irritation. There were no tell-tale signs of hair fibre, either, and so what he ended up with was basically a medium-sized glove which was approximately just a few sizes larger than his own hand. It was just _that _useful, really.

Deciding that nothing could be achieved by staring murderously at a black piece of leather, he stuffed it into his pocket for "future" investigation. Instead then, he turned – or attempted to – his attention back to the television. The news of the murder had spread like wildfire, which of course, was to be expected, although not particularly uncommon in Louisiana. In the first place, he hadn't exactly known what had possessed him to relocate his family to one of the cities in America that had larger-than-normal crime rates. He would never admit that it had been because the police force in the place was rather lacking, and that by diving headfirst into a hell hole of rapists and killers, he might be able to more easily jump back up to gain his credentials. No, that whole thing was silly. He had just happened to pick a random place on the map, and that place just happened to be Louisiana.

Right.

After about ten minutes, however, of staring at the television that had nothing more than traumatized "witnesses" (he scoffed; no one knew what "traumatized" was even if it got up and bit them on the behind), the male yawned in boredom. Once the crime scene had been thoroughly scanned, the team had gone their separate ways, with the various analysts heading to their respective laboratories to further study what little they had in hopes of catching the perpetrator. However, if he knew anything, it was that snipers were often the more elusive class, seeing as how they often left no evidence of their action in the actual scene of the bloody murder. Not to mention, one didn't become a sniper just because they were able to adjust accordingly to various weather abnormalities and different obstacles; one had to be extremely capable, calculating, and skilled to become one.

It would be like a wild goose chase, unless there was more substantial evidence.

However, it wasn't that fact that frustrated him; no, being short on clues was often what he had to come by when he had been one of the lead investigators. It was the fact that he could do no more than be an errand boy to the agents that had sticks so high up their arses that they couldn't see a clue if it hit them on the forehead. He briefly noted – sourly, at that – that he really was doing more harm than good for himself by being around such callous idiots, knowing that he could do so much better. However, on the rare occurrence in which he had been able to view the bright side, it was that he would be able to be exposed to the crime scenes. Although it was an indirect exposure, it was exposure nonetheless, and he would take what he got.

… Oh, who was he kidding? He wanted nothing more than to relive the glory days, not be ordered around like some bloody lack wit.

He just wanted to do _something_, something that didn't involve standing there like a moron with a damn shirt soaked in blood with no one noticing him…

He jumped, surprised by a foreign sound in the abnormally quiet office. Arthur frowned to himself; since when had he evolved into some self-deprecating masochist? Shaking his head, he forced thoughts of pride and the like towards the deepest recesses of his mind, trying to pinpoint what the sound had been exactly. It took him a few slow seconds to realize that it had been made at the front door, some sort of idiotic superstition by the head of office to ward off evil spirits.

Hmph, as if there was such a thing. Faeries and pixies, maybe, but evil spirits? Now that was just bordering on insanity.

Footsteps echoed on the floor as whomever had entered made their way down the halls of the grand police station. Being in one of the most disgusting excuse of city (in his opinion) did have its advantages, and his workplace was one of the rare few. It spanned three floors, two of which he could come and go at will, including the first and second floors. The halls were usually well kept, clean and tidy despite the fact that this place was often where the filthiest of criminals wiped their sorry excuses of shoes against the linoleum floor. It was ironic, he would think, that such an immaculate place was so often soiled by the treacherous people out there who found sheer amusement in taking the lives of others.

To what sort of twisted fun they could find from having blood dirty their hands was beyond him, and it was in his best interest not to attempt to empathize, either. He had enough on his plate as it was.

Finally, two figures emerged from around the corner, at least from where he could see. Arthur was stationed along the entrance to the main floor, a "receptionist" of sorts. To him, it was complete and utter _bullshit_. He knew that he had been placed there to deal with the more irate individuals that no one else would ever bother helping, though why they chose _him _was a mystery. Everyone knew of his ill-temper, and so matching a hot-headed individual with another possible insane, hot-headed person was definitely not going to bode well. It was yet another strike at the supposedly pristine palace of job opportunities that was the police force… as if.

One of the figures was someone he could recognize immediately, not only due to her distinctively coloured hair and hairstyle, but also due to the fact that she seemed to be one of the few females who could tolerate his presence… or one of the few who _could_, in general. With her chocolate-coloured hair and matching brown eyes, she looked like a walking chocolate bar to him, although this contrasted with her milky skin that he could have sworn was translucent in some light. She was an amiable person, he could say, although a little towards the gullible side. Often, it only took a few twisted words and manipulation before the woman completely changed her mind. It was judgemental of him to think so, yes, but he enjoyed reading people… whether he was any good at it, or not.

"Carrie?" he asked, forehead fully obscured and green eyes partially so under his police hat. "What are you doing back early? I thought you were out on patrol."

Arthur eyed her dutifully, glancing at her face that was just in a tad darker shade of pink than was her usual. "O-oh…", she replied, stuttering slightly. "Yeah, well, something came up, and I have to go home."

"Did it now? And what, pray tell, is this "something"?"

"S'nothing." She fidgeted, but it was quite obvious from her attempts to misdirect him that there was, indeed, _something_. He continued to watch her carefully, both of them refusing to break eye contact. However, Arthur was not only known to be ill-tempered, but stubborn as well, and there was no way he was going to lose such an effeminate battle of perseverance. He could almost feel a smirk of victory crossing his features when she blinked and looked away; the only thing that stopped him from doing so was the object of her attention. It was only for a brief moment, but her muddy eyes landed on her companion, causing a visible pooling of blood in her cheeks.

Oh, right, he had forgotten about the _other_ person.

Redirecting his sight, Arthur looked towards the male that stood next to her, his arm draped around her shoulder familiarly. Nothing could be said of his appearance – at least, none that particularly stood out to the male. He had blonde hair that closely resembled his in hue, but its length was that to his shoulders. It flowed freely around his face, a face that was now sporting a confident grin that had Arthur summarizing his whole personality in one word: wanker.

The other's smile grew larger when Arthur peered at him curiously, and he stepped closer to the desk. "Carrie? 'Oo is 'zis? Is 'e a friend of yours?" French. He was _so_ sickeningly French that Arthur had to resist the urge to reach across the table and slam his face on it… if it wasn't for the fact that it was his favourite desk, and having the scene of obnoxious Frenchman on it every day wouldn't have particularly assisted his… _wonderful _everyday moods. Instead then, he kept to himself, retracting one hand from the desk and stowing it on his lap, where it rearranged itself into a fist.

If he didn't believe in hate at first sight, he did now.

"U-um, yes, this is Arthur, my co-worker," Carrie responded shyly, still fidgeting and unable to look either of the males in the eye. "Arthur, this is Francis, my, uh… friend."

The blonde _tsk_ed, wagging his finger in front of her, before pulling her close with the arm around her neck, positioning his face a few centimetres away from her. "Now, now, _ma cherie_, do not be so… 'ow do you say it… 'umble, no? 'Eet would 'urt if you only considered us friends, _non_?" He winked at her, blue eyes catching the light just right to cause it to sparkle like the sea.

Carrie squeaked, before nodding mechanically and bowing her head. In response, the Frenchman chuckled, his hand lifting her chin up gently, proceeding to lock his lips with hers, causing a brief whine of protest, before it was immediately reciprocated.

"Yes, hello?" A curt voice cut through the scene, and the two separated with an audible plunging sound. "Yes, I _am_ still here." Arthur's eyebrow twitched and it literally took all his strength right then not to pull out his gun and shoot someone. "As much as I _love_ romance," he scoffed, hardly believing that such words had come out of his mouth, even if they were absolutely dripping in sarcasm, "would you two _kindly_ save your snogging for somewhere else?"

The Frenchman chuckled, a sound that felt like chalk grating on the proverbial chalkboard in his mind. He grit his teeth; would burning someone's hair be considered a crime? He didn't think so; he _had_ read the manual, and he was pretty certain there was nothing about it in there…

"But, of course, _monsieur_. Where are my manners? But you know, _mon britannique_, you could 'ave averted your eyes, _oui_? Do not be such a prude," he laughed softly. "Oh, unless… you wanted _un_ kiss as well? I would be glad to oblige."

Arthur stared at the man with oozing hostility; _never_ had he been so aggravated by someone's mere presence, and his personality was most definitely _not _earning him any positive points. "Wh-why I never-! Who would want to ever kiss _you_, you bloody git?" A crash followed thereafter, where Arthur had somehow found his hand holding a pencil holder… and it was tossed at the Frenchman's direction. The man sidestepped easily, still clearly amused. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

However, just before another argument could erupt, the chief arrived, growling and muttering under his breath, glancing at the scene. "What in the _hell_ just happened here?"

At the appearance of a higher-up, Arthur felt himself melt and defuse; not now, he could not risk everything now. With the utmost strength, he sat back down, massaging his temples before looking back at his boss, and forced – and very painful – smile on his face. "It's nothing, sir. I was attempting to have this troublemaker leave, but he's quite stubborn."

The elder man wheeled towards Carrie and her companion, his glare piercing. The Frenchman, waved his hand dismissively, as though unable to feel the tension in the air. "'Eet is okay, sir, I was just getting ready to leave. I apologize for causing any disturbances."

"Fine, just don't start throwing anything else around," the man said shortly, before snorting and departed the scene, leaving the three staring at each other, silence hanging in the air.

"Well, 'zen, shall we get going, _ma cherie_? We do 'ave… plans," the blonde said, pulling gently on Carrie's shoulders, motioning towards the exit with his head.

"R-right… well, I'll be seeing you, Arthur," Carrie muttered, before blushing and turning around as she was pulled deeper into the man's embrace. Their footsteps faded soon enough, but not before the male turned around, winking at Arthur.

Arthur, on the other hand, resisted throwing him the finger and another pencil kit.

* * *

><p>The key was jammed into the engine with much more force than was necessary – as if he <em>cared<em>. Muttering and cursing under his breath, Arthur threw down the cap off his head. It landed in the passenger's seat with a soft thud, causing a whole new set of curses to leave the Brit's mouth. Well, that had just been one _dandy_ day. He was relieved that it was over, but the overall feeling of relief was shadowed by the sheer annoyance he felt towards a certain _someone_ for ruining what could have been the last ten minutes of his work shift.

The silver Hyundai Sonata purred into life, unaware of the temperamental mood that its driver was currently experiencing. The sheer _nerve _of that man; who did he think he was, some sort of bloody god? Arthur bit his tongue to a point where he could taste the metallic palate in his mouth, but he paid that no mind. His thoughts were far too harried by certain murder techniques he could employ on a certain blonde man without having to fabricate too much evidence for his alibi. He could do it; he was a police officer (being a rookie, albeit, but still an officer of the law, nonetheless) and he'd seen his fair share of crimes to know where criminals went wrong and ended up being put behind bars. But he would do it end it quickly; staring at the bastard's obnoxious face made him want to bash it repeatedly and throw up on the sidewalk. Yes, it was _that _bad.

However, before he could continue on his ramblings and master plans as to procuring a gun illegally, his cellphone rang. Having connected it to his car automatically via Bluetooth, he merely said "Answer", and the call was put through… and he almost wished immediately that he had checked the number before accepting it.

Out came the shrill voice of a female he knew too well, a shrill voice that also caused his ears to bleed, but not to a point where it could actually kill him. No, if it did, he would have been long dead four years ago.

"Arthur! Where have you been? I've been trying to call you all day!"

"… I've been at work… honey. Remember? I'm not allowed communication while on shift." He took slow and deep breaths; in through the nose and out through the mouth. He felt like he was giving birth.

"Yes, well, that's a fucking stupid rule. While you were off doing _who-knows-what_, _someone_ got in trouble at school… _again_! Tell me, can you guess who?"

Arthur breathed through his teeth, resisting the urge to bang his head on the steering wheel. This scene was so overplayed that he felt as though he had memorized all the lines by heart. "… Let me guess. Is it Alfred?"

"Damn right, it's Alfred. That stupid son of yours is always getting into trouble! I just had a call from the principal's office, and we have to pick him up! Like hell I'm going to show my face! He's caused enough trouble for me; I don't need to _show_ my face up for him, either!"

The male sighed, shaking his head. Alfred really was a troublemaker of sorts, even when he had been at an age where he could not talk, but it had seemed to have gotten worse since they moved here. He figured it was nothing more than a ridiculous phase of rebellion; all he needed was to get settled and get used to the situation. Honestly, he couldn't blame the lad, although sometimes, he wished that the boy could better behave himself every now and again. This was the third day in a row that he'd been reprimanded for some joke that he had done, a prank that had gone too far. Although the Briton was, in fact, a stickler for rules and rigidity, always wanting everything kempt, he couldn't help but bend those rules for his son. The boy was the only real family he had left, the only thing he had left to protect, the only thing he had left to make him feel whole. His wife was already at her wits' end with both of them, and he wouldn't be surprised if any day now, she would pull out divorce papers. It would hurt like hell, of course; he did love her, otherwise, he wouldn't have married her in the first place. But the marriage was tearing them apart, and it seemed as though Alfred would be the final barrier between the two of them.

His life was just one big _fantastic _mess, wasn't it?

"Well… yes, I-… I'll take care of it."

"You damn well better take care of it! And hurry up, dinner's at six."

"Yes, darling. I'll see you then. … Love you."

"Yeah, yeah, you too."

The phone went dead, along with all other signs of life that lingered within the half-dead policeman. He groaned; life was just dandy.

It really, really was.

* * *

><p>"What did you do this time, Alfred?" The whole ride home had been rather quiet, with only the purr of the engine and the hypnotizing murmurs of the radio lulling them both into reality. After having picked up his son from the principal's office, with repeated promises of "disciplining" his son, he had finally been allowed to leave, but only under the premises that from that day on, Alfred would be watched carefully, and that if any other infractions occurred within the week, he would be put on a two-week suspension.<p>

There was no response from the passenger seat; his son was brooding, as was usual. He even refused to make eye contact, huffily staring out the window as city lights flickered by. Arthur did not understand where he got his stubbornness from, but he was sure as the earth was round that it wasn't from his side of the family. He glanced at the fifteen-year-old, who was taking care not to turn his neck in his father's direction, still resolute on keeping the silence. If it wasn't for the fact that this was his flesh and blood, Arthur was pretty certain he would have strangled him by now; that, and the fact that he loved his son more than anything in the world… despite his obvious flaws.

He sighed; the tension was too much for him, at least, too much between himself and his son. "Listen, Alfred, if you have a problem with the school here, then-"

"I don't have a problem with the school, I don't have a problem with the kids, I have a problem with the whole fact that we even moved here!" came the loud outburst from his right. Arthur blinked, taken off-guard by the response, but not surprised with its context. Alfred had, after all, voiced his concern on the matter more than once, but there was nothing that could have been done. "You know, all the kids are talking about how they went to kindergarten together, then they look at me like I'm some sort of alien! Do you know what that _feels _like? Huh? Of course not, _Dad_, because _you_ never had to go through something like that! I hate this place, I hate this city!"

Arthur bit his tongue, refusing to explode as well, though his patience was wearing rather quite thin, especially considering the events of that day. "Please, Alfred, just bear with it," he said, his tone gentler than he had expected. "You… you'll get used to it. Just give it some time, alright? And please stop trying to cause trouble… your mother and I are very worried about you."

"Yeah? Well, you _should _be worried. Whatever, Dad."

And just like that, with a tone of finality in his voice, the conversation was cut short, leaving only a dreaded silence hanging in the air.

* * *

><p>AN: So... I feel like I haven't updated this in forever, but that's because I got my first job evur (I know, sad), and I feel really overwhelmed, followed by muse rape, so I'm really sorry if this chapter doesn't meet standards. Like Francis, I gave you a glimpse of his family life, which will be used for characterization later on. If there's anything I can do to improve, or just have some insight, please feel free to review!

Also, next chapter is where the real "fun" begins, so look forward to that!

Finally, if you have some difficult picturing police Arthur, then look at this http: / / www . zerochan . net / 629413 Just remove the spaces. /giggles

Have a good day, readers!


	5. Chapter 5

**Shout-Outs: **As per usual, here are my shout-outs of thanks and appreciation to all my loyal readers, followers, reviewers, and anyone who has subscribed for this story! I love you all so much! :D

To _XxCapturetheLightxX_, congrats! xD Thanks very much for the compliment, and haha, knew you'd like it! Now for some reason I want to have Arthur dress in a pirate outfit... I might be able to work that in, lol! xD Just... be careful next time, you crazy person. :P To _SillySneeze_, thanks very much, and I hope this chapter meets your standards! To _Readers-Section_, ahaha, thanks again for reviewing! And yes, yes, but we all agree that Francis is a wanker, do we not? But you know, it's okay and all since LOVE CONQUERS ALL and we all know Arthur has a soft spot for vain, obnoxious little Frenchmen, so it's all good. c: To _Reviewer_, yes, I agree with that, but sometimes I feel as though I'm just blabbing on and on, haha, so please do tell me when it gets to that point. To _Piyo13_, and I fixed that for ya, ahaha, since more than one person have said that, so thanks very much for that! And hahaha, no worries, because I will admit I do that sometimes. XD To _FrUKisLove_, hooray, I have a name to refer to you haha. And it's ok, I'm flattered you'd still try and read my fic even on a DSi, though. Thanks for the review and the correction again, I really fail at French. xD And thank you very much for the job luck; I need it so bad. To _callous-enigma_, ffft, thank you, my little fangirl. And of course you'd love the sarcasm; it's very much you, of course. Not to mention you Carrie hatred. Perhaps I should add in more Carrie clones just to annoy you, ahaha.~

Now, without further ado!

* * *

><p>In retrospect, perhaps it hadn't been his best idea to leave the bedroom door unlocked with an innocent fourteen-year-old wandering around the house with his polar bear stuffed toy glued to the side. Well, it also hadn't been his best idea to experiment with a new perfume that had the essence of meat in it (somehow), which was a day that ended up with him having dogs literally barking at his behind. And… it also hadn't been his best idea to carry a gun in a holster in his belt out of habit when travelling in an airport.<p>

He… just didn't have a lot of _good_ ideas, in general.

The first surprise had hit him that morning. It was oddly chilly today, as though it was some sort of forewarning to the cold events that were to transpire that day. However, the man had just barely felt the clammy rays of the morning's winter when his companion, whom he'd found out was Carrie, woke up herself, shining those muddy coloured eyes at him. They were somewhat hollow from exhaustion, and the expression on her face was just so vulnerable that it was as though she was a puppy laying out on the street, waiting for an attack.

And, well, what sort of man would he be if he hadn't seen through her _obvious _hint and desire for him to ravage her once more? The answer was simple; he would not be a man, and neither would he be true to his nature if he just left the poor innocent creature be.

Ravage her he did… had it not been for the squeak of the door that was somehow audible over the arduous lovemaking, over the screams, moans and groans of his rather docile partner. Whenever she would cry out in ecstasy, he could feel his insides curl in delight and lust, his addiction to the act lashing out and wanting more and more of her. A few minutes in bed with her and he had already concluded that she wasn't as… _harmless _and innocent as she seemed. He hadn't experienced that much pleasure and exercise all in one go. He was _vastly_ impressed; would she mind coming back? It wouldn't seem to be too hard of a job, seeing as how she was practically attached to him now (quite literally, at that moment too). However, more often than not, he had deemed it not only _boring _to experience the same woman twice, but it was also rather unsafe, considering his circumstances.

But then again, danger was what made life all the more exciting, was it not?

Now, they were in the midst of what he could dub the most prominent of all climaxes, when, the bedroom door crept open, the squeaking sound going unheard for a few short seconds; he was just a _little _preoccupied at that moment to really take a glance around. However, when he had, his cerulean eyes dropped wide open, mouth agape as he took in the sight before him. There, with his hand frozen on the doorknob, head tilted in a questioning gesture, was petite Matthieu. His eyes blinked innocently, seemingly confused at the intricate mesh of bodies that now inhabited his father's bed. There were a few tense moments as the two stared at each other, either because they didn't know what to say… or because there was nothing _to _say.

Francis had to break that barrier, and quick.

Chuckling and smoothly running his fingers through his mess of blonde hair, he deftly moved (read: pushed) the woman aside, grabbing his clothes off the floor in one swift motion and earning himself a huff from his companion. Standing up, he dressed himself with practiced hands (but of course he had to be quick taking them on _and _off; after all, it wasn't as though the occasion was rare when estranged husbands would come home screaming bloody murder at him for… "pleasuring" their wives. In his opinion, he was doing them a _service_; those women were one night away from leaving for good. It was a sad, sad thing, nightly displeasure. It was a good thing it was something he could not – and never would – empathize with. Those poor, poor women…), zipping up his pants and buttoning his shirt as he opened his arms, welcoming. The smile on his face was prominent and warm and familiar, especially to his son, who now broke out into a grin and was slowly rushing forward to meet his father.

The thing was, had this been any other person – and he really meant _any other _person, that including cops, prostitutes, the fat guy down the street, or even a killer – and it wouldn't have been nearly as awkward as it was now. Matthieu… his little angel, was still an innocent young thing; there were numerous days where he could spare him the details of his little… love nest, so to speak, but now was not the time. Clean, pure little Matthieu… oh, how he sometimes rued the day he was born with French blood running through his veins (alright, maybe not really, but that was beside the point). He had managed to keep his son relatively unsoiled, so to speak, and he still felt as though this wasn't the time or place. So with that, he had plastered an easy smile on his face that he hoped would side track his little angel.

Matthieu ran forward and buried his face in his father's chest, who was now kneeling so they could see eye-to-eye. He was giggling, and Francis laughed alongside him, their laughter pealing like chimes on a beautiful summer day.

"Oh, _mon petite _Matthieu. What are you doing in Papa's room?" he started, as innocently as he could.

"Uhm ... _L'école est __bientôt commencer__, Papa, __et je voulais juste vous rappeler que __vous avez __une réunion avec __mes professeurs __de demain__!_"

The thought made him stop; he had almost forgotten. Nodding solemnly before ruffling his son's matching straw-coloured hair, he chuckled, placing a kiss on his forehead. "_Oui_, but of course, Matthieu. I would never forget if 'eet was for you. Now run along, _mon ange_, and do not tell anyone about what you say now, _oui_?"

"_Mais pourquoi__, Papa?" _The question was innocent enough, but Francis had to take a deep breath before acknowledging it, feeling a bitter resentment rise up in himself as he forced the lie from his lips.

"_Parce que, __mon petit gateau_, 'ze bad guys will 'urt you and Papa if you tell. 'Eet 'ees a secret for us, non? I can trust you, right?"

The boy nodded, saluting him, his expression solemn. "_Oui__! __Je __ne trahira jamais __Papa__!"_

"_Très bon_. Now go eat your breakfast, will you?"

He nodded, but not before embracing the man's neck once more. Turning his back, he rushed down the stairs, muttering to his polar bear about being a top secret spy on a mission to never reveal his father's secret.

Francis could only watch him run away with a hint of melancholy on his face. But if only he knew… but if only he knew.

It was just a quick shower after that – or as quick as twenty minutes could be with the various herbal shampoos and conditioners that were _absolutely necessary _– Francis found himself ready for another day of work. It wasn't particularly a thought he welcomed; yet another day, yet another meeting. But somehow, he wasn't as opposed to the idea as he had been yesterday, given the amount of… _interesting _circumstances he'd run into yesterday.

* * *

><p>Walking out the front door and locking it with a soft click, he mulled through the aforementioned day's events. Although there had been a smorgasbord of occurrences, one particular thing that stuck in his head was that of the blonde policeman's appearance. He chuckled at the recollection; oh, but it was just so easy to poke fun at him. He hadn't had some good-natured fun in a while, and somehow, it drove him to feel a touch of sadness that he would never be able to have someone drabble on and on senselessly with him again. Of course, he couldn't exactly complain, seeing as how that meant that the others were just too tongue-tied with his supreme beauty to ever fight back!<p>

Ah, how he was truly God's gift to earth.

But after a few more seconds, he shook his head; it was just as well that he forget about the whole incident and be ever-so-excited for this glorious new day of meetings. Depression and sadness weren't exactly his forte.

It was upon approaching his red and black Bugatti Veyron Super Sports automobile that his mixed sour and happy-go-lucky mood converted into one of complete apprehension. Smile wiped off his face, Francis had a gut feeling of danger, but to what that was exactly, he couldn't tell. It was a feeling that seemed to grow deeper and more pronounced as he approached. No matter how much he stared, he still couldn't quite place a finger on it.

But he found out soon enough.

Grabbing open the door of his multimillion-dollar car, he took a few careful steps towards the vehicle. Suitcase in hand, he took a few tentative steps forward, ducking his head to enter the vehicle when he heard it. In the silence of the high-class (which to him, paled in comparison to any sort of high-class in France) neighbourhood, granted to him by the sheer early morning hours, there was a rhythmic ticking from inside. He had barely time to assess the situation when the ticking ceased, replaced by a high trilling sound, rapid, insistent.

Eyes widened in shock and realization.

"Oh, _merde_."

More of reflex than anything else, the man turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could towards the opposite direction, before feeling the scalding heat of his car and the disastrous sound of an explosion from behind him. He felt it in slow motion, but he hadn't gained enough distance between the vehicle and himself, and he was thrown forward violently. He landed on his front roughly on a patch of grass, a cry of pain leaving his lips, but not before another explosion caused him to feel as though he'd just been barbecued alive.

Panting, Francis righted himself up in a sitting position, eyes wide as he surveyed the wreckage that was his car. The fire danced on the automobile, teasing him with its destructive power. Sweat coated his face and soot marred his features as he continued to breathe erratically, suitcase still held on to stubbornly.

A few minutes later, he shook his head, shakily pushing himself up to a standing position. His mind raced, pulling up pictures and facts as though it had been transformed into a high-speed, highly protected computer that was often always in his place of work. Finally, he was able to pull up two barely coherent thoughts:

A bomb. On his car.

It took him a few seconds, before he blanched at the thought; oh, how absolutely… _unoriginal_. It wasn't to say that it was entirely expected, but it wasn't _unexpected_. He'd been through harsher fire than that before, after all. However, there was a larger problem than the loss of his car and possibly his life. _Someone_ had better pay for his coat, he thought to himself as he surveyed the tattered mess. It was singed in several places, and it reeked of burning leather. With a click of his tongue, he shook his head and headed back inside; there was no way on God's green earth that he was going to work dressed like this. What would Matilda think!

A hissing sound alerted him to a small flame that was still lit on the hem of his coat. With a resigned sigh, he dialled his tailor – speed dial one. It was all just a mess.

* * *

><p>There had been no choice but to – he couldn't even bear to <em>think <em>it – take the public transportation to work today. It was definitely the most painful thirty minutes of his life, and the only possible event that could have matched his pure disdain for such a disgusting piece of machinery was his ongoing mourning for his baby, his car. It had been something that had taken almost two years' worth of salary, but above the fact that he had toiled (alright, maybe that wouldn't be the most accurate term to use) day in and day out for it, it was that he had grown quite accustomed to it. Not to mention, its striking black and red colours often served his desire – his _need _– for attention.

But now, there went two point five million dollars down the drain. He could only hope that his insurance would cover it.

So when Francis, dressed in striking black and red as part of his ongoing bereavement of his car, pushed through the automatic swirling doors to the agency, there was no denying the fact that he had an air of slight bitterness around him, one that was unusual for the happy-go-lucky man. But he would merely huff and cross his arms childishly whenever someone would point that out to him; he had just experienced firsthand the loss of his second child (Matthieu, of course, was irreplaceable), so a break would have been duly welcome. However, due to the sheer amount of attention that he was receiving from his coworkers and… "bed mates", one could say, he had considerably lightened up after a few hours.

After all, nothing was better than attention. He even contemplated on having his car blown up more times… if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't _have_ another one.

Still, there was no denying the fact that the man's figurative spring had been restored to his step, and a smile was already painted on his face as he pushed through the doors to the meeting that would be held today. Nothing, not even such a droll thing, could possibly ruin the enlightened, floating mood he found himself in after having garnered so much attention (and of course, female numbers; Evangeline was next on his list).

The meeting commenced once everyone had taken their seats, and as had been promised, was presided over by a new face. His name was Honda Kiku, or at least, that was what he could gather in between his humorously strong accent (as if he was one to talk). He seemed like a much more no-nonsense guy than the previous one had been, and of course, this did absolutely nothing to improve the male's attention span. If anything, the tight limits had his mind wandering elsewhere, towards a more _important _venue like grieving his car and where he could possibly find one that was flashier. It was only at the mention of the murder that occurred yesterday did he snap back to attention.

"… heard the news yesterday?" Honda said, his voice as monotonous as it had been since the beginning. "Our analysts are currently looking into the situation for any clues and hints that we might be able to report to the Director of National Intelligence. If any of you," he paused, glancing around the room (and was it just his imagination, or did his gaze linger over him more than the others?), "have any information, please do not hesitate to step forward. Withholding this vital information may result in serious consequences not only for yourself, but for your team and whoever else might be the slightest bit involved. Feel free to see myself or, of course our own Director – Sir Francis Bonnefoy – for any new leads. Thank you, and you are dismissed."

The general murmur that accompanied the aftermath of these meetings initiated almost at once, but as usual, Francis did not hold any general interest in them. He merely exited the room swiftly, cackling softly to himself at the interesting turn of events that had started to unfold.

Of course, they would discuss the killing yesterday; they weren't centered around "information" for nothing. If anything, he was proud of his work; only _he _could get a job like that done without leaving any sort of evidence behind. That was, after all, one of the main principles of that career. Never get caught, and never leave anything behind; not a trace, not a dust, not even a piece of hair. This, he knew, was extremely vital. But it was fine, as he had never been graced with the unluckiness of getting caught – or at least, he thought so.

Francis wandered down the halls just a few hours after the meeting had adjourned, whistling to himself in a mood that was far too positive for the recent turn of events. That particular corridor had been emptied, due to the fact that there were only a few select few that was authorized on that level.

It was suspicious then, when upon his mid-whistle of "The Saints Come Marching In", there were audible clacking, rushing footsteps approaching him from behind. Eyes narrowed, instinct rushing in, he found himself twisting around when the footsteps were deemed close enough to his own personal space, his arms jutting out to capture the wrists of his assailant. With the first attack method secured, he pulled the attacker roughly towards him by the wrists, and at the moment that they were to collide, a well-aimed kick was sent to the other's torso, causing them to fly backwards and hit the wall with a thud, a low groan escaping their lips.

Francis then turned his attention to his hands, cursing internally. Oh, _wonderful_, he had chipped a nail. But at least this time, he had solid proof as to who to blame.

The blonde now approached the other cautiously, muscles rigid in preparation and years of experience. The man – he could only assume so with his tacky fashion sense and sturdy build – was dressed on all black, literally from head to toe. This he could already dismiss as a very inexperienced attacker; what sort of person wore _all black_ unless they were making a fashion statement? And he, for one, knew that it was definitely not in right now. But he shook his head, continuing on with the investigation. A black ski mask adorned the man's face, holed in just right to fit his nose, full lips and jade eyes.

… Jade eyes?

"And what exactly is it, 'zat you wished to achieve but doing 'zis?" Francis asked, an eyebrow rising, offering a hand out to the other as he rolled his eyes.

The man chuckled, taking it and propping himself up, rubbing the back of his head that had no doubt taken most of the impact. He then proceeded to rip the mask of his face, his expression immediately morphing into one of someone who looked as though they had just swallowed too much sour candy all at once. He stuck his tongue out at Francis, his face torn between amusement and pain.

"Ay, _mi amigo_. Whoever said your skills were rusty must be _muy loco_."

Francis chuckled. "_Oui_, but do enlighten me. I highly doubt you were releasing some… sexual tension on me just 'zen." An eyebrow rose. "Unless… it _was _'zat… in which case, I would not mind." He waggled his eyebrows seductively.

Antonio merely shook his head, the usual grin on his face diminished to one of seriousness. It was then that Francis could tell that there was something very wrong. "No such luck, _mi amigo_. The higher-ups are mad, _hombre_, like, _loco como un toro_. You almost revealed yourself yesterday, you know?"

The blonde frowned. "_Non_, you are mistaken. I was extremely careful not to leave any marks be'ind. No footprints, no shoeprints… not even an eyelash. 'Zey do not know what 'zey are talking abou-"

"But that's just it, _mi amigo_!" Antonio burst out, his expression glaring as he towered over the Frenchman. In this light, although their height difference was minimal, it was as though he had suddenly sprouted a few inches. "You _did _leave _una evidencia_!" There was a smack, and somehow Francis found himself pinned against the wall, the Spaniard's arms against his side so as to prevent escape. "I don't know if you know, but there were cameras in that neighbourhood. One of them _caught_ you on tape."

Realization dawned on Francis, but he was more concerned of a growing feeling in his gut. The horror was displayed outwardly on his face, as he managed to squeak out, "Wait! Did they… did 'zey get my bad side?"

Antonio sighed, rubbing his temple, his expression still glaring, though Francis could swear his mouth twitched for a fraction of a second. "This is no laughing matter! _Una foto_, _mi amigo, una foto_! You could have revealed us and our entire operation with that _one _mistake! You're lucky it was only a shot of the back of your head and some of your hair, but with enough proof, you could be implicated! _El jefe _is not very pleased, _mi amigo_." His expression softened somewhat, his voice lowered and if anything, was laced with something like fear. "I had to explain to him that it was an accident, I covered up for you as best I could! But you know, with our organization, mistakes can mean _el muerte_." His eyes met blue ones, pleading.

Francis sighed, pushing the other man away gently. There was a hollow feeling in his gut, and although he couldn't quite place his finger on it, he was quite certain it wasn't fear; no, that feeling had been long extricated from him since the first "mission". But seeing Antonio so miserable, sticking his head out for him, made him feel… almost weak, like a victim, and he wouldn't have someone else take the blame for him – or at least, not Antonio. Not poor, innocent Antonio who was his advisor in more ways than one. So, in an attempt to defuse the situation, he placed a hand on the other's shoulder, and as gently as he could, said, "Well, at least 'ze picture wasn't too bad, _no_?"

The Spaniard sighed, his look returning to a hardened one, but not as intense as it had been before. "_Mi amigo_, this is serious. Because the boss has lost his faith in you – and let's face it, you can be a bit… _descuidado_. He considered, you know, killing you, but I couldn't let him do that, not to you!" Tears welled up in his eyes, and for a second, the gut feeling within Francis intensified, but he could not for the love of him, figure out what it was. "So… we reached a compromise."

The Frenchman's instincts screamed at him to run, but curiosity got the better of him. "And… 'zat is?"

Antonio took a deep breath, before squarely looking him in the eye. His tone and expression erased all possible humorous escapes Francis could use. "Since you cannot be trusted on your own, you will be assigned _una guardia_. to accompany you on all your missions."

"… _Excusez-moi?_"

"A bodyguard, Francis. From now on, you will have a bodyguard."

* * *

><p>AN: Well, from now on, my A/N will start with some rant about my job. And yes, if I didn't mention it before, I now work as a cashier for Wal-Mart. I swear, I'm going for part-time but this week I have full-time hours! /dies But somehow I pumped this out for you guys, so please be gentle. ;-; Also, this is longer than my usual so... blame fluctuating muse, ahaha. Also usually I write chapters in one day but this one was split in two days due to my job, which would explain the length. xD

And here we go, ahaha. Some action for y'all, though obviously it'll get more intense later. And bad Francis, WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO POOR MATTIE'S INNOCENCE? But from the looks of it... he's a little dense so I guess it doesn't matter. xD And skipping to the end, I bet you can all guess where this is going, lmfao. Let the love-hate begin!

Again, please do feel free to leave reviews and feedback. Some healthy criticism is welcomed and loved!

Cheers, and happy Canada Day!~ (and Fourth of July... coz well, I love Alfred. c:)

Some more fail translations:

_L'école est __bientôt commencer__, Papa, __et je voulais juste vous rappeler que __vous avez __une réunion avec __mes professeurs __de demain__! - _School is starting soon, Dad, and I just wanted to remind you thatyou have a meeting with my teachers tomorrow!

_mon petit gateau - _my little cupcake

_Je __ne trahira jamais __Papa__! - _I will never betray Papa!

_merde - _shit

_loco como un toro - _crazy like a bull

_el jefe - _the boss

_el muerte - _death

_descuidado - _careless


	6. Chapter 6

**Shout-Outs: **Yeaaaah, man, next chapter! I'm really dishing these out as best I can before school starts and all, so like... yeah! And here come the weekly shout-outs (with a new post format so it looks less cluttered, OTL)!~

_PrussianAwesomeness_ - Yes, yes he is. xD I think I mentioned that in the really short and sucky plot summary in chapter 1, but I might have also not, in which case I do fail. His age does have a purpose, though he really doesn't seem like it. I'm rather biased with his cuteness, aren't I? And thank you, will keep updating for you and my loyal fans out there!

_Readers-Section _- Your reviews usually interest me, and this is no exception (along with others, of course, but you do have some amazing insight which I respect and need)! Anyways, I kind of have to agree with you. Being the author and writing these two, I, of course, have to compare and contrast in my head (and feel like I have a split personality), but I find myself liking Francis more... which is probably why he seems more likeable and realistic (at least to you and me and... whoever else? xD) It helps that I'm like both of them, but Francis is just so hilarious not to do, so voila, there's my work and interpretation of him. As to Matthieu, he is, isn't he? Adorable is the way he should go; I mean, he should have something going for him aside from being invisible, amirite? Lul. Though I've always thought that adult Canada would have some perverted tendencies... oh god, I hope I don't bring that here. Poor Alfred will stand no chance. And thank you, thank you for the compliments! I am trying to do that, moving it along, I mean, seeing as how people will lose interest if it's all too boring or stagnant, but I have this sort of OCD to stabilize their backgrounds first, or at least most of it, so I hope you, along with others, stick around for the real sticky stuff.~

_FrUKisLove _- Hooray, more nameless reviews. XD And thank you, but please do refrain from killing him. Darling little thing is important to my plot, and I'm sure Francis will try and come after you if you harm his precious little angel. ): You know, the only thing/person he's not perverted towards, so if you take that away, I'm afraid even I cannot control him... sadly. And again, thank you for the compliments! That bomb scene was inspired by an action movie I watched (dur) so I hope I got his reaction (which was awesome) right. And yes, yes it is Arthur. XD Although we can already tell, he won't be too happy...

_Reviewer _- Well, thank you very much for taking time out of your day to read this little baby of mine, I do hope you enjoyed them both! Thank you for the compliments; I do try to keep them in line as much as possible, as "canon" as possible, but at the same time, adding a little bit of originality in them without completely butchering them, as you so put it. I also agree with you; how I will put them together is starting to sound so absurd, but that is the wonder of a multi-chaptered fic! Ideas pop up as they go along, and if truth be told, I myself am not too sure as to how they'll fall in love, though I have an inkling. Rest assured though, it probably won't be too pretty. After all, it can't be a crime fic if so, am I right?

_sweet as candy _- A new reviewer! And thank you very much, I will try to keep up your with expectations, but please don't hesitate to say anything if I do not reach or exceed them.

_Fan/Person _- If you are the same, ahaha. S'no problem, sometimes reviewing can be a pain in the butt, so thanks for doing it anyways! Thanks for the compliments, and I am glad you're staying with me and have read all of them up-to-date. Does my heart good when that happens, especially since I know it sometimes painful to catch up to the rest of the story. Anyways, I do hope you continue sticking around and supplying me some feedback; never bad to get more of those!

-takes a deep breath. WELL, alright, we're done!~ Now, without further ado...

* * *

><p>Banging. The banging was so… insistent. Why wouldn't the banging just <em>shut up<em>?

… But of course it wouldn't. When had the banging ever listened to him before?

Now there was screaming. It wasn't the type of blood-curling scream that he had often heard in the lame excuses of American horror movies, but more of the "I'm-going-to-kill-you-in-three-seconds" sort of scream. And that, usually, was his signal to get up his lazy arse out of bed and investigate just what was to be another normal day in the Kirkland residence.

Pillow having been clamped over his ears tightly in an attempt to block out of the sounds of the banging that had begun around thirty minutes ago, Arthur growled lightly as he forcefully pried the soft object away from his head. The banging had insisted on continuing its unfortunately cruel toil on the man's brain, and it took him a good few seconds to realize that the banging had long since ceased, and that the rhythmic sounds he heard, alternating from soft explosions to loud beating, were that of the blood rushing painfully in his head.

Because of course, a headache was a stellar way to start the day.

Groaning to himself, the blonde pushed himself into a sitting position, earning him a sense of vertigo that he was not, in the least, accustomed to. He leaned his back against the bed's headboard, leaning his neck back over it so as to almost position it in a ninety-degree angle, hoping that this slight tilt would relieve him of some of the pain that the migraine was bestowing upon him – but, of course, no such luck. Was he surprised? Irritated, maybe, but not in the sense that this was something of extraordinary consequence in his life. Since when had luck ever been on his side? If anything, he felt as though he'd broken about a hundred or so mirrors in a past life of his, and fate above was now convening on him, bent on making his life a living hell. Or something of the sort.

It would do no good to stand by here and do absolutely nothing; the beating in his head now became more dominant than the screams that could be heard from the kitchen below. Belatedly, he realized that his wife was no longer in the bed with him. Her side was extremely cluttered, as though a tornado had just ravaged her side of the bed and left him to deal with the aftermath. Although they shared one bed, Michelle had absolutely _insisted _on separate blankets for the two of them, given that Arthur apparently tossed in his sleep and that, for the love of her, she could not get her well-deserved _sommeil de beauté _(as she often called it, though with the results, he begged to differ) with him rolling about like a pig stuck in a trap. Leave it to her to come up with such a beautiful and _loving _simile for her husband's dormant tendencies. Of course, he hadn't complained, but instead immediately complied; if there was anything worse than Michelle on a normal day, it was Michelle on a normal day without her beauty sleep.

Her side of the bed lay empty, and relatively cold to touch, betraying the fact that she had left not too long ago. Her blanket was strewn across the length of the bed, twisted into an almost perfect double helix knot. The immaculate white pillow – which she had also _insisted _should be labelled so they not mix their pillows up together – was laying on the floor, tilted at an angle against the bed. Her night socks were a scattered mess, with one on the bed and the other draping off the bedside. It was all he could do not to twitch and burn everything in sight; the very idea of unkemptness often sent him into a slight OCD fit, but the sight of it, well, he shuddered to think. Luckily, it was a sight he had grown used to over the years, and with a resigned sigh, he leaned over and folded the blanket into a perfect square shape. The socks, too, were rolled into a ball and placed on top of the pillow that was now situated exactly five inches from his own. When he had finished with her side, he had promptly cleaned up his own, but once he stood up to gain a view of his perfect folding skills, he was rewarded with more knocking sounds that threatened to burst his head open. Frowning and using one of the bedside tables for support, Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose, hoping to at least alleviate some of the pain, but to no avail.

But, of course.

Arthur was heavily tempted to lie back down on his bed; it was so comforting next to the very thought of the day that loomed before him. However, before he had so much as a chance to contemplate suicide as his second option, another high-pitched scream emanated from downstairs. When that was accompanied by the sound of rather expensive china breaking, he figured that it was about high time he get downstairs and figure out what exactly was happening. Pure willpower was what drove him down the stairs instead of rolling into the possible ensuing chaos that was his everyday life; need he say more?

When he arrived at the scene of the crime that was the kitchen (oh, how wonderfully ironic for him), his eyes were met with two main highlights. One was the couple of people that were standing in the room facing off, one whose glaring hatred was visibly erect on her face while the other whose muted defiance was something he had seen much too often. The second thing was the absolute mess on the floor that lay in between them; as he had suspected, his wife had thrown the ceramics that they had bought earlier that week in celebration of an upcoming party they were to hold. He sighed internally; oh, how wonderful. She'd probably somehow find a way to pin this on him, and make him pay dearly with his own money (Michelle didn't believe in that whole "sharing-a-bank-account" shit, as she so graciously put it, because they weren't "babies" and they earned their own money so why the need to share?). She'd probably also make him clean up the mess that loomed so obviously in the middle of the perfect floor… though it wouldn't take much convincing to do that. Just the sight of it made his fingers itch to clean it up; he would not have such a ridiculous excuse of shatters laying right there in plain sight!

Moving forward resignedly, head still throbbing like the drums on the Chinese New Year, Arthur weaved his way around and behind his son, pulling out a drawer for some gloves. He had learned never to interfere in situations like these, unless he wanted to meet Michelle's wrath (because, he thought, rolling his eyes, he didn't experience enough of that on a _good _day). However, just as he was about to leave the room for a broom and dustpan, the fighting once more ensued, the tension of the glares having completely been broken in favour of… louder venues.

"I should _kill _you for disgracing this family again! You _putain cul_ –" Arthur and Alfred both flinched, "don't you have anything better to do than embarrass me? What, in the honest _fuck,_ is your problem here? Do you have some sort of death wish?"

Alfred was quiet, but one could tell from the look on his distorted face that he was trying not to let it get to him. Unlike with Arthur, Michelle had a new line of terror, and even he, rebellious as he was, was smart enough to know not to cross it. In comparison to her, Arthur looked like a tame kitten next to a hungry lioness.

"Well? Nothing to say for yourself? Of course not, you're always so quiet at home but in school, just because I'm not there, you think you can do whatever the fuck you want? Well, if that's the case, then get the fuck out of my house and live on the streets for all I care! Just don't waste my time crying out like _un lâche putain_ and get out! Get out now! I fucking hate you!"

As tough of a shell as Alfred had built around himself, it seemed to crumble before his very eyes as he started shaking visibly. His voice was no longer the resilient, rebellious tone he had used last night. Instead, it was now filled with sorrow and… there was no other way to put it, but whining. His face cast off that glare; his mother's words were often the sure fire way to get through him, but at the same time, it often hurt him more than he let on. Arthur's mouth opened; there were limits to Michelle's inappropriate behaviour, and this was it. However, before as he could so much as say a single syllable, his son spoke up. "No… I'm sorry, I won't… do it again. I promise… Mom."

_Smack._

Flesh hit flesh before Arthur could so much as process what was occurring. In the second it had taken him to blink, Michelle had crossed over the wreckage that was the china splatter, raised her hand, and slapped the teen right across the face. "Don't you _ever_ call me your "mom" again. You are not my son. I raised no such a delinquent and _imbécile_. If you're still home tonight, I'm going to fucking burn your room."

Finally, Arthur seemed to have found his voice, where it had hidden along with the silent tears that were streaming down Alfred's face. "Now, Michelle, that was a little much, don't you think? Maybe you just need some air…"

She whipped around, her newfound fury rekindled and now targeted towards her husband. She stepped forward, her pointer finger jamming repeatedly (and painfully) at Arthur's chest. Never in his life was he more scared of his wife scorned; not even being repeatedly under the risk of gunfire and being killed by criminals held a candle to the heart-stopping fear he felt that now froze him to his spot. "You, you, you! It's your entire fucking fault he turned out like this, you know! You're too soft on him, _homme stupide,_ and you don't even try and punish him! Now we're stuck with a sorry excuse for a son, always acting out because he has some sort of fucking attention problem. He's a fucking attention whore!"

"I-"

"_Tais-toi_! If I see his face tonight, you better be ready to call nine-one-one, because he is not getting out of here alive." With a huff, she turned on her heel and out the door, where movement could be heard from the front porch. "And clean up that mess on the floor!" With a sound of finality, she slammed the door, leaving both him and his shuddering son in awkward silence.

* * *

><p>"Don't take it too personally, Alfred, you know how she is," Arthur began, the first start of the conversation since the two had entered his car on the way to Alfred's school. It had been Alfred's idea to reject taking public transportation by saying that criminals were more likely to kill a kid alone on a bus than one in a car with another person. It was all bullshit, but he had played quite effectively on Arthur's weakness, his overprotectiveness of him, to get what he wanted. Of course, what with all the events that had occurred around them – most of them centering around Michelle – it wasn't particularly hard to do that.<p>

He received nothing but silence on the other end, reminding him painfully of last night. Speaking of pain, his headache had somehow grown substantially worse since he'd left the house, and there was no way that this was treatable by any sort of pain reliever. He had _that _much faith in humanity, and if pills were manmade then, he would be well damned to stake such a painful throbbing to them. Still, he grudgingly thought, if it would help….

The buildings lapsed by, and the only noise now was the radio and the incessant honking of horns around them. At this time was rush hour, so it was only understandable that the traffic jam was extremely prominent. On any other time, this would have been extremely welcome to him; if it stopped him from experiencing yet another day being treated like an imbecile at his job, he would have been stuck here on the highway for hours on end. However now, the jam served as a reminder of the tension that hung between the two of them, of the Alfred whose eyes were still rimmed with red from the tears he had shed earlier. He wished he could take the pain away, but he felt that under his wife's almost tyrannical rule, he was absolutely helpless. He couldn't fight back even if it meant his life was at stake, but even more so, if it was Alfred's. The very least he often found himself doing was reflecting her anger towards him instead of their son; he never wanted Alfred to experience such brutality and anger at a young age. He had vowed to protect him, but from the scene that morning, it was clear that he wasn't exactly Superman.

Perhaps it took almost an hour before they finally arrived at Sherwood Middle School, whereupon a large throng of students had already gathered to start the day. Judging from the car's clock, they had a good twenty minutes before the bell rang. Alfred was already moving, where he had been previously immobile, the palm of his hand caressing the spot where Michelle had slapped him; there was no doubt that it still stung, and that, through his fingers, Arthur could see that there was still a streak of stubborn pink. He bit his lip; he knew that any words of comfort would only make it worse here. Instead then, he cleared his throat, shifting his gaze to the playing schoolchildren, although his hand twitched visibly as he held it back from caressing the boy's hair and telling him that it was alright, that he would always be here.

Finally, Alfred unbuckled his seatbelt, shrugging his backpack onto his shoulders. He seemed to hesitate for a second, his eyes shifting rapidly from left to right, as though looking or something or someone. Arthur opened his mouth to ask, but before he could do so, the blonde leaned over. His eyes widened, frozen and stunned, before he was gifted with a quick peck on the cheek. Alfred then turned quickly and shoved his way out the car door, and just before it slammed, he could have sworn he heard a murmured, "Thanks, Dad."

* * *

><p>Arthur groaned at the list of to-do things that were situated upon his desk. He had just arrived at the office that day, somewhat numb from what had just happened a few minutes ago. Granted, his relationship with Alfred wasn't what one could call top-notch, but when it came to Michelle, they were often united against a force that they couldn't fight against. To Arthur, he wasn't quite sure what it was about the woman that he couldn't completely dislike; something about her always made him come back, no matter what happened. He had often mulled this over in the past, reasons about why he stayed with her despite her verbal – and sometimes physical – abuse, but he chalked it up to the fact that he really had a soft spot for her. Had it been any other person, he would have long since stood up for himself; nothing disgusted him more than the feeling of playing second fiddle to anyone else who wasn't either his boss, or paying him… or both. Perhaps he was just frightened in the likelihood that, if he did talk back, she'd turn around and leave him forever. The thought made him blanch internally and his chest hurt; he had lost so much already, and if she was gone, too, then, he wasn't too sure how he could live on.<p>

Maybe, just maybe, he would hold his head high for Alfred, and perhaps that would be enough to sustain his life. But even with that, he wasn't sure how long it would last.

The male resisted the urge to bang his head repeatedly on his desk, but that didn't stop him from doing it once. Next to his wife, these papers and documents that needed sorting were nothing of consequence. Still, they ignited that flare within him, that pride that he was so reduced to nothing more than filing papers and taking orders that he wasn't even sure who he _was _anymore. Green eyes scanning the list, he found even more tedious and menial tasks for him: bring coffee to Velma, make a report on yesterday's incidences, check-up on the news of the killers, and do some other chores that were, in his mind, akin to cleaning out the toilet.

He shuddered at the thought; if he was told to do that, he wasn't sure he could guarantee the mental state of his mind, let alone the toilet sanitation.

The man groaned, rubbing his eyes as though lacking sleep. The headache had, thankfully (oh, one of the many things his life so easily graced him with), subsided, but there was still a dull throbbing at his left temple, which he quickly ignored. He scanned the list once more, and finding that no, there was in fact no play on his eyes and that faeries were not playing tricks on him, he decided to get to work. He might as well start his wonderful start of a day.

It was in the midst of him brewing a cup of coffee (he blanched; how Americans could love such a bitter drink was beyond him; it was tea for him all the way) that a voice upon the intercom requested his presence in the chief's office. '_Great_', he thought, _'__Tosser __probably wants more shite done for his family. What am I, a maid?'_

Grumbling to himself, Arthur wished deeply that he could shoot himself (or his boss, for that matter) then and there, but he figured that since curiosity was burning inside him, he might as well find out what the big deal was before succumbing to his last resort. He walked into the room, eyes rolling as he found his the elder man relaxing by his desk and sipping his coffee while watching television. It made him wonder in what state of drunkenness he had been to accept a job under such an obviously perfect example of a stereotypical American. It must have been after four rounds of drinks; he was pretty certain that it was only upon his third did memories start to blur, and upon the fourth, there was no predicting his memory's stability. Yes, that must have been it.

The man gestured for him to sit down, and he did so reluctantly. Usually, orders were barked at him the very moment he entered the room; something about him in such a vulnerable position made him feel as though the man was trying to soften him up for something that would be apocalyptic. Instinctively, he tensed, but more so against his internal conflict than the external. He knew that, if the man was going to make him do some sort of obscene chore that even ants wouldn't do, his first reply would be a biting, sarcastic remark which would definitely get him fired. He braced himself for that, tightly biting his tongue as the other man yawned, taking his time for the torture sentence that was no doubt soon to follow.

"So, Arthur, I have a job for you," he began, drawling in a bored tone.

"Yes, sir?" Arthur replied, allowing the release of his tongue before once more biting on it.

"You see, we've got more than enough policemen here. You could even say we have a little bit of an excess." The Briton's eyes narrowed; was this some subtle way of firing him? If so, then he wasn't quite sure just how strong his teeth were against his tongue. However, he did nod mutely, as though to agree. "So we've gone around offering up some of our men for some odd jobs here and there, but most of them still stay within the confines of law enforcement – you know, stuff like crossing guard and whatnot – so it's not too bad. Then the other day, we got this odd job request from some high-end agency, and they wanted someone from our station to act as a bodyguard for someone."

At this, Arthur's eyebrow rose. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad a torture sentence, if this was going the way he thought…

"And I was thinking, since you seem to be… bored most of the time," (somehow, he knew that the word "dispensable" would have been too mean; still, he congratulated his boss for avoiding an argument), "I put your name up. Hope you don't mind (mind? he hadn't even known about it till now), but they accepted you. Simple job, just make sure your charge is safe. The agency told me that he could be quite a handful, so they just had to make sure they assigned the guy someone who was meticulous and responsible – and guess what? You were the first person that came to mind! So I thought this would be the perfect job for you."

Yes, perhaps this wasn't so bad.

"Oh, and they sent me a picture of him. You're to meet him tomorrow morning, about eight, at the café by the corner of Fifth and Sixth. Here you go. Good luck, Arthur."

When emerald eyes focused on the mess of blonde and blue in the picture, he felt what little hope he had clung to explode in front of his very eyes. His teeth, which at that point had been resolute on keeping his tongue in captivity, loosened. His hand immediately went to the holster that kept his gun; only willpower kept him from drawing it and shooting himself in the head.

It was going to be bad.

* * *

><p>AN: ... If this chapter was total blabbing and purely me droning on and on about how life sucks (both for me and Arthur), tell me, because I'd completely agree. /facepalm Also, I said that I'd be moving the plot on, but I really had to let you all see Arthur's side and again, how much is life is a hell hole, which I hope somewhat justifies his actions in the future (spoiler alert... not really!) But yes, here's a little more of a slice of pie in Arthur's totally awesome life with Michelle and Alfred (oh god, he's rubbing off on me).

On a more interactive note, can anyone guess which character Michelle is? I think I gave enough of a hint with her name and the language she speaks, though I hid that completely with her outrageous personality. Come on now, she likes to be no one's territory. /giggles Also, if you have time, please give me a little feedback on her; is she too much, too bitchy, or just right?

Now, I'll say that I _promise _that the next chapter is when we'll really jump into stuff. How do I know? Simple! I already wrote the next two! (/shot /shot /shot) And those... wow, I had a hell of a time writing those (yes, there is blood and sexy Arthur), so I hope those will give you a light at the end of the tunnel after all this gibberish. xD And the reason I wrote them in advance was not because I'm a keener, but because of my job. I'm not sure when I'd have time to write them, and since I had a day off today, I kicked it up and raped it a bit... I just hope it recovers soon.

And, that was it! Have a good day, readers, and pray Francis isn't in your closet tonight. c:

_And now, more fail translations from Google:_

__putain cul __- fucking ass

_un lâche putain _- a fucking coward

_homme stupide _- stupid man

_Tais-toi_! _- _shut up!


	7. Chapter 7

**Shout-outs: **Hurr we go with shout-outs!~

_callous-enigma _- Well, hai durr, again! Thanks for reviewing, fangirl (I so got that right!). And yes, that's actually a tad surprising. I'd have though you wouldn't hold as much hate towards girls with a back, ahaha, even if this is achieved by bullying others. And so, here ya go, your next chapter. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing.

_PrussianAwesomeness _- Yep, you are right! Here's some candy! Though I made it obvious enough, at least I hope so. But yes, the fact that she speaks both English and French was the hint that I was talking about. That, and, I really can't see England for some reason with any other "canon" girl. Hungary, I think, would just be some sort of apocalyptic thing... though now that I think about it, I haven't even seen a fic with them both. Or maybe I've been too lazy to find one, whichever works!~

_Sasha _- Ahaha, yet again, we have a winner! I dunno about Gakuen Hetalia, I played the one that was for PC and I actually kind of laughed at it, but the enjoyment was decreased by the fact that I had to keep reading off a site for the translations because I sadly cannot read Japanese for the life of me. I thought she was an alright character; headstrong and stubborn and with a little bit of an attitude, though I obviously took that part of her and blew it out of proportion. And yes, we all know the trials of love, tsk, tsk, but who we fall in love with is definitely not something that can be predicted, no? And our little Arthur just happens to fall in love with the "wrong" person... or is she?

_fantasyAge _- Oh... my, don't kill your sleep cycle now. But yes, thank you for your musings (which always help) and I'll try to address them the best I can. For your first question, I made him short because in my eyes, short and cute comes hand in hand with Matthieu. I dunno why, that's probably messed up lawl. That or, you can always imagine Francis to be ginormous. xD And the innocence thing... well, we'll see. /wink Now for your second question, yes indeed, thanks for this. I often forget about base interactions, but don't worry, there will definitely be more, and especially more Alfred. It's just that between teen angst and his new bodyguard job, there isn't really time for them to really sit at a table and talk, ahaha. And well, Michelle loves them both... just, not in the normal way one would expect? Lmao, Arthur's always been abused, his life sucks, so what little thing Michelle adds is nothing to him, I guess. It's more of a "I gotta live with it" type deal. Finally, about the accents, I was _just _thinking that, but the thing is, I don't know _how _to do a Spanish accent LOL. "You" would only be the one thing that would change. xD But if you can give me pointers for that, that'd help. xD And thanks for your review! Feel free to leave more comments like this!

_Readers-Section - _Well, thank you, I appreciate that very much. I know reviews take time so I appreciate you taking time out of yours! And thank you for your compliments, a writer really needs them every now and again. Yes, I agree, which is what I was going for, but sometimes I find I blab a little too much so people lose interest. Ah well. I'm glad it doesn't seem that way, but even I'm having the feeling that I should be moving on. Nothing is worse than a stagnant story, and I'm hoping this chapter moves me away from that! And yes, you are right, yet another winnah! And ohkai, I thought so too, but I did have a reason for that, but I'm seeing that it seems like it's being overshadowed by said personality, ahaha. But I think I fixed that in a later chap which I wrote, but I won't spoil anything! Except the fact the Michelle isn't all that mean. And maybe in an even later chapter, a little bit of a flashback of the past will help. And yes, that was what I was looking for, to hate her, so I guess it's working. But as I said, I hope later, even if you won't like her, we'll all understand why. xD Alfred is awesome, period, specially with Matthieu. This is a fact. I will take no arguments! D And well, here's the next chapter. Hope I didn't disappoint! xD

_FrUkIsLove _- LOL, it's not a problem to both a late review and the logging in. It just makes me happy that you do it in the end. (: And I understand the circumstances; with summer and my job, I feel like my updating is actually killing me, instead of making me happy. And next week, the update might be late, so in advance I apologize to you, but details will be in the A/N. Dx Anyways! LOLOLOL, poor Michelle. Everyone just hates her. C'mon... she has... good sides... kind of. LOL. Just gotta, dig deep? LMFAO. And thank you for that! But as I've been thinking, I suppose it really is about time to alternate a little action with talking. his is a crime fic after all! Plus, character development will be done through action as well... what I'm talking about, just wait and see! /evil laugh Omg LOL, you know, the sad thing is, I forgot about Michelle's reaction until you brought it up just now. What an awful writer I am, oh god. XD But now that you reminded me, well, let's just say it won't be pleasant. I won't say anything more lest I ruin it, but you won't be disappointed (unless I do, so I'll apologize in advance ;-;) But yes, THE POWER IS MINE. But really, Michelle has her good sides, and I actually just wrote about that in a future chapter since you guys brought up good points about her being a little too harsh. But in that chapter, no, she's not going to magically become a cutesy princess. But... a bit better? Lawl. But here, I do hope this chapter is to your liking!

_Fan _- Ahaha, yes, yes she is. And only a little? Well, that's new. Maybe if you reread again... ahaha, just kidding. But yes, here's the next chapter, please do enjoy!

... /takes a deep breath OKAY I AM DONE! This is later than usual, but next week might be worse, but... blahblahblah. I'll let you get to the story now. xD

* * *

><p>Was it possible that someone could actually die of laughter? He wasn't sure, not that he'd had any personal experience of that. He was usually the one employed for the "quick" kill of sorts, a one-shot head kill that left little to no chance of pain for the target. Any bouts of asphyxiation or anything of the sort that could somehow be torturous for the victim was not in his arsenal, though if it was, he'd have thought dying of laughter was definitely the way to go.<p>

Because that's what he felt like doing at that moment.

It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, the blonde, blue-eyed male had been pouting a little too excessively (_le gasp, _nothing was too excessive for him!) for his own good, moping and dragging himself around the house that morning. He wasn't quite _sure _if yesterday had been a dream or not, some sort of horrible nightmare. Of course, this thought was immediately ruled out by the fact that he had been making out with flirtatious, promiscuous little Matilda, and if that had really been a nightmare, then he really should have them more often.

He smirked; he wondered, if he died, would Heaven be like that? He would sure love to hope so.

Still, there was the looming, nibbling feeling as Antonio's words sank in that morning when he opened his eyes to the cool room that was uncharacteristically empty of company (he cursed internally; in all his haste and confusion yesterday, he had forgotten to call Matilda over. But, ah, well, she was practically wrapped around his finger – and well, literally around his body (he grinned) – yesterday, so it wouldn't take much to fix that little mistake). Alright, maybe, just _maybe _he would admit that he had been a bit careless in the past, but where was the fun in life if it was all caution? Restrictions made him want to gag, and as such, he always loved to pretend (more often than once) that they didn't exist. He would feel so physically constrained when he was told to do this and that, like being slowly suffocated to death. It was just… _disgusting_. No one could trap a free bird like himself; he could do what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and silly little rules could never hope to trap him (what was that "do no commit adultery" rule about? Had he followed that, not only would he be sexually deprived, but he would be a sexually deprived _Frenchman_ who would probably go slowly insane in his little shack without the company. He could only think of what would happen to his poor Matthieu to see his father in such a state).

But – and he hated to think it – had he really been that disregarding of the rules to a point that he was now to be watched and _stalked _for his every movement? No, wait, now that didn't sound so bad. To be watched meticulously by some exotic beauty from the East Asian countries, with her beautiful black hair and her tanned skin, her chocolate eyes that he could forever bathe in…

Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

Unless… they sent a male. Francis had to admit that he didn't completely _reject _that idea, but he was obviously not as enthused about it as the idea of an exotic goddess. Males, females, anything that moved was his prey – he thought to himself as he licked his lips – and so gender or sexual orientation mattered little to him. But somehow, he often found females much more enticing, what with their soft bodies, their luscious curves from where his hands would grasp their supple flesh, where he would push himself rhythmically against their bodies, and he would hear their cries and ecstasy and he would be aroused…

On the other hand, with males… well, alright, they weren't that bad. To be honest, they were something more of a challenge, seeing as how sexual moments with them were often rough and lacked the tenderness associated with the opposite gender. He would admit that he had triumphed five males in his lifespan (a record, but not as awesome as his forty females, of course!), and they were… enjoyable, to say the least. But he still had yet to meet one who didn't immediately want to "fuck", as they so often and crudely dubbed "lovemaking", the moment they got in a bed. And he knew asking for some gentleness from them was nothing more than wishful thinking. He'd probably sooner land himself into a four-some than one of those.

If he to admit it, that was probably the largest thing that bugged him about having a bodyguard around. Part of it was the pride that he had to be watched over like a baby, but the biggest obstacle was the fact that he would be trailed by some leering psychotic maniac who would never let him out of his sight. He could almost feel his freedom literally go down the drain, and he just barely resisted the urge to kneel on the floor of his bedroom, raise his arms, his head lifted above while he screamed, "_NOOOOOOOON!_"

Well, it wouldn't have been above him to do something dramatic like that, but seeing as Matthieu was still asleep, perhaps that wasn't the wisest, for now.

Nevertheless, it wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter, and he couldn't very well go against his superior's orders. Antonio had used that whole puppy-dog look to get him to go along with it, but he better get a beautiful mademoiselle! With that in mind, he rushed through his daily routine (except for the shower, of course, it was _the _sacred ritual that must never be rushed at all costs, even if the house was on fire!), pulling on his sky blue coat and dark blue jeans – a relatively normal but still bright outfit for him. After all, his looks would probably be enough to stun the _señorita (_as Antonio put it); there was no need to blind the poor girl.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, he had found himself in front of the quaint little café, which was not yet so hustling and bustling due to the early hours, and the fact that most people were probably on their way to work instead of lounging about like he was about to. Sauntering over to the nearby waiter, he confirmed his reservation under <em>Bonnefoy <em>(the organization had gone ahead and booked it under his name; they better not have had paid this under his name!). He was then escorted to a table close to a potted plant, whose leaves tickled his shoulder slightly whenever he moved. It was also close to the large, open window, allowing him to have a view of the outside while he hummed to himself and processed what he should do while waiting for his company to arrive.

The ringing of the bell by the front of the café became an old game quickly, for as people slowly filed into the place, he found himself becoming more and more excitable at the prospect of meeting whoever was supposed to escort him around. Still, after the first five or so that turned out to be false alarms (but he had to admit, the "company" here wasn't too bad; he had managed to achieve a record of five numbers under ten minutes), his hopes were slowly dashed and deteriorated; perhaps the other had backed out at the last second? He mourned internally for the possible loss of his possible beloved, petite bodyguard, and he set his face down on the table in agony. Well, so much for romantic dates and daring espionage missions.

"I'd have thought you to be at least above a pig with manners. Seems I was wrong."

The biting remark was familiar; the accent was even more so. Francis, instead of being stung by the comment, found himself electrified and even energized by it, and he sat up. Cobalt eyes widened in surprise and shock as he took in the sight before him.

It couldn't be.

As though ignorant of his shocked stature, the other continued, "It's also rude to stare, bloody git."

It was at the even more familiar insult that brought him back to the present, and Francis shook his head, a seductive smile on his features. He chuckled. "So, 'eet 'ees you, 'zey sent?"

"Sadly." Green eyes were electrifyingly bright against the light coming in copious amounts from the window. The blonde surveyed the shorter one with ever-prying eyes, taking in every sight of him from his extremely ironed uniform, to the hat on his head, to the gun that was propped comfortably in his holster, and even the way the other moved to sit down across from him. It was as though he was a fish out of water; he couldn't stop gulping for oxygen, and that oxygen was the very sight of the man whom he'd thought he'd never seen again.

_Mon Dieu, _miracles _do_ happen.

As the other settled into his chair, Francis took the opportunity to speak up once more. "So… I believe… 'eet was "Arthur", _oui_?"

"Arthur" nodded, confirming it without saying anything. The look on his face was one of concentration, as though he was thinking of some complex plan, solving some puzzle that he couldn't quite put a handle on. Francis pursed his lips; was he shy? Well, this was no fun. The man he'd met back at the police station was much more resilient than this one; it was too boring. Perhaps he'd attempt to get a rise out of him?

"_Je m'apelle _Francis Bonnefoy," he started, reaching out a hand over the table, so as to shake the other's. When he found that it was merely ignored, he pouted, retracting it before staring intensely at the other, who was now looking at the window, arms crossed in front of him as though he would much rather be anywhere but here. Ah, but he couldn't have that, could he?

He had an idea.

"So, _mon britannique_," he began in a low tone, before firing off his native tongue, "_Pourquoi êtes-vous si courts? Mais, ne vous mé prenez pas. Je pense que c'est vraiment intéressant. Tout comme vos yeux. Vous avez de beaux yeux. Si je vous ai demandé decoucher avec moi ce soir, le feriez-vous?_"

Studying the other's reaction, Francis smirked internally as he noticed the tightening of the other's lips, no doubt itching and burning with curiosity. He kept staring, waiting, waiting. After all, sometimes the best thing was to wait; all good things came to those who did. Often this concept applied to females and his potential bed mates, but he was certainly confident of his skills to entice anyone, even if it was just into a conversation.

_Un, deux, trois._

"What in the bloody hell did you just say?" the other burst out. It was almost like he spat out the words, as though he had lost some internal struggle with himself. The look on his face solidified this theory; he looked as though he wanted to put his fist in his mouth and wished he never asked. However, this look was also laced with burning curiosity; alas, no one could resist the language of love.

"I said, you are a very beautiful man," Francis said simply, cracking up internally at how much he left out. Eyes trained on the other, he watched as a red flush crossed the other's features, green eyes widening as they were taken aback by the… compliment.

"Wh-what? I find that a tad insulting, you little _frog_. You don't go around calling men "beautiful"! Are you daft?"

"Maybe, but per'aps I am daft over you." He waggled his eyes seductively at the other. This caused an even more crimson flush on the other's face, a reaction that Francis was getting quite accustomed to… and finding it quite sexy, at that.

Arthur grabbed the closest thing he could – a napkin – and threw it against the Frenchman's face, temporarily cutting the intense stare, but unsuccessfully hiding his stammer. "Oh, b-belt up. Save your compliments for someone who cares."

"I am 'urt, _mon ami_. Why must you throw things at my beautiful face? Do you 'ate me so much?" He pouted, feigning hurt as he removed the napkin and folded it delicately back on the table.

"Seeing as how it's not part of my job to _like _you, then yes, yes I do. You're nothing more than a pompous wanker that derives pleasure from night-time activities day in and day out. You are someone who has absolutely sense of dignity or self-respect, and you seem to treat others with that arrogant attitude of yours. You seem to see everyone as lower than you, whether in intelligence or in some other facet, but that is your judgement. In short, I don't like your kind." Arthur's eyes narrowed, glaring at the other man, taking a deep breath from the analytical observation that had just been made of his charge. Francis, on the other hand, was nothing short of appalled, staring at the other with his mouth half-open; surely, he wasn't _that _much of an open book.

Was he?

It took him a few seconds to recover, but when he did, he shook his head. "_Oui_, guilty as charged. What a remarkable talent you 'ave there, _mon ami_. Can you use 'zat skill to 'elp me pick up some fine Mademoiselles?"

"Hell no!"

"Oh, I get 'eet. I am not 'zat shallow, _mon lapin_. Surely, I will share. Do not be so shy! All you need to do is ask."

"Git, I don't _want _one! I'm perfectly happily-" he could swear the other stumbled on this word, "- married with a woman I love. Keep me out of your damn love life and your "help"!"

"_Oui, oui, _I get it," Francis whispered conspiratorially, winking at the other over the wine glass. "Do not worry; your secret 'ees safe wiz' me. I promise."

"Bloody frog!"

* * *

><p>Luckily, before Arthur could pull out his gun – Francis had not missed that twitch in his fingers as they caressed the weapon – the waiter had come by, asking for their orders and their drinks to go with the food. To be frank, Francis was a bit disappointed at the disruption; teasing the other gave him infinite fun at the other's expense. He pouted when the tall, slick man came, but ordered nonetheless; a <em>café gourmand <em>for him with a side of wine, while his companion ordered scones and a cup of tea. Then the employee left, leaving them both staring at each other in silence; well, it was more like Francis staring and the other glaring so murderously that, if looks could kill, he was quite certain he'd be dead ten times over.

For some reason, he found this adorable; never had he had so much fun teasing someone else.

"So-"

"Don't you start! Before I forget, we might as well discuss the details of this partnership." Arthur sighed, taking a deep breath as though this was going to be the most painful thing he was going to do in his life. But, of course, it couldn't be; he was with _Francis_, after all.

Before he could reply, he pulled out a sort of flat screen – if he remembered correctly, it was something along the lines of an "iPad". Eyes boggled in amazement when it whirred to life, Arthur expertly clicking buttons on its surface as they were led through a multitude of windows until they finally arrived at a simple-looking document with a bunch of words scrawled all over. Francis groaned.

Arthur shot him a seething look, before saying, "What's the matter, _frog_, are you illiterate as well as unattractive?"

Francis shook his head, feigning hurt at the insult. "_Non, non_, not at all. I was merely amazed at your fast finger work, _mon lapin_, and I was getting excited thinking about 'eet, 'ees all."

The other's eyes widened, before he sputtered, "I- you-… Sod off! Can't you pay attention to something else other than the bed for more than five seconds?"

Francis chuckled; the sputtering was simply adorable. He loved getting a rise out of the other – nothing better than pure entertainment. "_Oui_, of course I can. I'm paying attention to you, am I not?" When he received a glare from the other, he put both of his hands up, palms out, in mock surrender. "_Je me le procurer._ _S'il vous plait_, continue."

One last glance was shot in his direction, before Arthur turned his attention back to the machine that lay between them. "Right, well. According to this, whatever "mission" you have, along with its information, will immediately be passed on to me as well. This way, we will be in sync, and if need be, we can put our thoughts together and come up with logical conclusions." Francis nodded, barely paying attention, his focus on the Briton's lips as they moved so effortlessly, tainted with that marvellous accent that made him shudder to think about how it would sound should they ever spend a night together. Just the thought of it made him grin. "From what I gather, I will be accompanying you wherever you go, and I have to leave you my number so you may contact me whenever you need me. You are not to be out of my sight for too long – I don't even want to think about what it is you did – to ensure both your job, and mine. I think that's all." He frowned, pursing his lips in concentration as he flicked through various paragraphs. "I'm curious, what is it that you _do _exactly? Hello?"

Francis started; he hadn't noticed how much he had been observing the other so into his work until he was being addressed. He scolded himself; he knew better than to stare! Coughing to cover up his lapse in concentration, he smiled at the other before replying. "I am a sort of… investigative journalist, you could say." From the looks of things, Arthur hadn't been informed of his job at the CIA, or of his other job. "I visit crime scenes and… gazzer' 'ze information. _Pourquoi?_"

"Curious."

Francis could swear that their waiter was purposely listening to their conversation, for before he could make a perverted remark, he once again appeared, setting their order before them. He then bowed, asking them not to hesitate if they needed anything else, but disappearing back to wherever he came from. Instead of the irritation he felt, it was quickly replaced by one of excitement comparable to a giddy school kid; in front of him lay an artistic array of miniature puddings: a mini triangle of brownie, an eggcup-sized crème brûlée and a taste of something like clafoutis. Compared to his meal, Arthur's looked so sadly plain that he felt a surge of pity for the man… and something else. For when he looked up, he read a second of longing on the man's face, before it was replaced by one of indifference.

Francis smiled. "Do you want a bite, _mon lapin_? Do not be shy; I will gladly feed you." He waggled his eyebrows, waving around a piece of the brownie in a tempting way.

"I'm perfectly fine feeding myself, you _frog! _And who'd want any of that disgusting French food?"

Francis gasped, clutching his chest in feigned hurt. "What is wrong wiz' French food? Come on, _mon britannique_, you know you want some," he said in a sing-song voice. He was rewarded with a twitch from the other's face – and somehow, he hadn't known where he'd procured one – another napkin to the face. When he pulled it off, he could have sworn he caught a sneer from the other, before he ducked and resumed eating his food.

Oh, so he wanted to play _that _game. Well, two could play it… if not better.

Whistling nonchalantly, Francis walked his fingers over the tabletop, before "accidentally" tipping his wine glass over, spilling the contents all over the table – and all over the Briton's food and uniform. A sharp intake of breath emanated from his companion.

"You bloody nitwit! You did that on purpose!" he cried, grabbing at his napkin (Francis could swear that those came out of nowhere at this point) and began wiping at his soiled uniform.

"Who, _moi_? I did no such thing!" He looked affronted, but it was made less convincing by the smirk on his face. "My hand… tripped. Oops?"

"You ought to walk the plank for that one!"

Francis chuckled at the pirate reference, before securing the brownie piece on his fork. He then pushed his chair back, standing up, earning a suspicious glare from his companion. "What do you think you're doi-"

The Frenchman stood behind the man, reaching over his shoulder and grabbing the napkin delicately from the other's furious, shaking hands. "_Non, non,_ 'zis 'ees 'ow you do 'eet. You dab, do not wipe." To demonstrate his point, the male reached over the other's shoulder, dabbing the front of his chest. He could feel the Briton tense at their proximity, surprise no doubt overtaking him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the anger caught up. Before the other could protest, Francis jammed the fork with the food into the other's open mouth, causing him to stiffen, eyes widening as he quickly chewed to avoid choking.

"'Eet 'ees good, _non_?"

Arthur was silent as he swallowed with great difficulty, as though the food was acid. Even so, Francis smirked triumphantly at the second of satisfaction on the other's face; of course, French food was irresistible.

"… Bloody frog!"

* * *

><p>The plane trip to the site of investigation had been nothing short of entertaining, due to the company present. Their destination, according to Arthur's iPad, was London, Texas, a remote, unincorporated community in Kimble County. Apparently, there had been some murders that had risen more than a few suspicious eyebrows, and so they were sent in to investigate. Francis had received a phone call just prior to landing about the nature of murder and his job; he was to gather as much information as necessary, and return to the CIA office and reiterate all he had seen. The report would then be filed, and administered to the Director of National Intelligence for security reasons.<p>

It was so _drab_, much like the pilot's fashion sense (Lars vastly needed a wardrobe change). The only thing that kept him going was the shorter blonde now almost glued to his side, emerald eyes flitting around suspiciously.

"Relax, _mon ami_, no one 'ees going to attack right now," he said, chuckling as they descended the plane.

"How do _you _know that?" Arthur demanded. Francis decided to just shrug and let it go; the other's tense state would prove to be a weapon in his arsenal for future pranks.

The car trip to the murder site was no less interesting than the plane trip had been – if not more so. With Arthur driving, Francis had been free to poke fun at the other man, both physically and mentally. After a few comments about Francis' "sexy 'air", Arthur's "nonexistent fashion sense", belly tickling and shouts that had caused them to veer into the opposite lane more than once, the two finally arrived in the dead midst of nowhere. Immediately, the Frenchman felt his mood drop; there was no mall in sight. How was he going to survive this place without a change of clothes? Obviously, he had packed some, just in case, but surely he couldn't be expected to fend for himself without a mall! He felt a rising panic within him, but no matter how much he looked, the mall he so yearned for refused to appear, and it took all he had to sit there in the corner and rock back and forth in his corner.

Well, willpower and the fact that Arthur was suppressing a sneer at the oncoming breakdown that the Frenchman was so obviously on the verge of.

Sucking in a deep breath – and coughing from the arid oxygen – Francis sauntered forward towards what could only be a post office, almost indiscernible as such with all the yellow tape that had been plastered all over the entrance and the perimeter in general. This brought a sense of lucidity within Francis; although he was more prone to slacking off than not, there were times when he knew that something was serious business, and there had never been a more prone example of such. Police cars took up most of the space, and he, along with Arthur, had to weave themselves in and out through a complex maze that it felt as though they were dancing some sort of complicated Macarena. When they had finally passed through – with Arthur grumbling and glaring at the heat and the physical torture they had just encountered (which, Francis thought selfishly, he had no right to do; at least he had a _hat_, whereas he only had his gorgeous coat and his beautiful, perfect self), they were met with who could only be the head police officer around here.

"Yao Wang. Pleasure to meet you, aru," the Chinese man said, holding out a hand which Francis, then Arthur, took turns shaking. "Glad you could make it so quickly, aru."

"But, of course," Francis began with a flair. "Expect nothing less of _moi_." He heard a coughing sound from behind him, and he could almost feel the daggers pointed at his direction. "I mean, of _us_. So, what 'ees 'ze problem?"

"Well, two days ago, we received a distress call from one of the employees at the postal office, aru. She was just unlocking the door, and, well, I think you better see for yourself, aru." With a nod, the man ordered the others wordlessly to lift the police tape around the entrance, allowing Francis and Arthur to enter.

Even with Arthur entering first, there was no doubt that the former was also met with the same aroma – no, that was too pleasant a word, _stench _would have been more appropriate – that floated around the room.

Blood.

The metallic smell infiltrated his senses, and an arm instinctively covered his sensitive nose. Francis blanched; he hadn't smelled something this foul in a while. His targets were often farther off, being a sniper, and thus he usually wasn't exposed to this sort of blood stench. But now, it was there, hanging heavy in the air. He felt like he could drown in it. It was so bitter, so ugly… so _angry_. His nose had been the first to adjust before his eyes could, and already, he could feel a shudder pass through him. It was an odd chill, despite the high temperatures they had thus far encountered. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

What sort of monster had been here?

Soon, of course, his eyesight was able to catch up and process the sight in the room. The postal office was only one room, a rectangular piece. The windows had been boarded up with wooden planks, preventing light from coming through, except in minute cracks between the timber. The only real source of luminescence was from the doorway from where he had entered. Scarce as it was, it had shed enough in the room… shed enough light for a sight that he was not prepared for.

On the floor lay three bodies, laying face-up. All their expressions were distorted into one of unnatural sleep; that is, they could looked as though they were asleep, if not for the fact that their eyes were propped wide open, and they were surrounded by pools of blood. The smell was soon explained; it was as though a mini-pool of the crimson liquid had exploded in the room. It was not limited only to the floor; blood dripped from the ceiling, splattered in irregular patterns across the wall. In the silence, one could hear the liquid drip down onto the floor with a splash, further adding on to the already intensely foul smell in room.

He could only afford to whisper, as though a louder decibel would awaken the crimson, viscous thing. "_Mon Dieu._"

Francis took a tentative step forward, an arm still over his nose and mouth, a frown now on his beautiful face. Arthur was still a few steps ahead of him, frozen. "_Mon britannique_, 'oo could… 'oo could do something like 'zis?"

Silence.

"_Mon britannique_?" He thought the pause had been so the younger could come up with some sort of sarcastic retort, but no such thing came. Instead, he was only met with more deafening silence, interrupted only by the trickling of blood off the ceiling.

"_Mon britannique? Mon britannique? _" There was still no answer, and Francis moved forward, almost instantly behind the shorter blonde. "Arthur?" At this distance, he could see that the other was frozen, save for the slight tremors running up and down his body at irregular intervals. Despite the situation, he chuckled. "Now, now, _mon ami_, I know you are _très _excited, but keep 'eet togezzer, _non_?" When there was no reply, he moved another step forward, just a few inches away from the other. "Shall I restrain you wiz' your 'andcuffs?" He chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh, half-expecting the other to turn around and smack him in good fun (oh, he was so fun to tease!), but no such luck.

It was with the tremors that slowly became more prominent and the lack of response that alerted Francis' intuition that something was horribly wrong.

"Arthur?" Francis attempted a light laugh. "Come now, _mon britannique_, if 'zis is some vow of silence, I promise you 'zat 'eet will not be you 'oo wins."

Instead of a sarcastic reply, he was met with a shudder by the other. Now alarmed, the Frenchman stepped over around the male, to view his face. What he saw there was more disturbing than the image in the room, and a gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Lips pale and mouth flapping open and close like a fish, Arthur's face was completely devoid of colour, save for the emerald eyes that almost bulged out of their sockets. _Dead_ was an adjective he could use as a comparison; a _corpse_ was a noun he could use. The only sign of movement from the other was his mouth and erratic breaths; his eyes were concentrated on the sight before them. There was a major spasm throughout his body, before it settled into irregular shivers. Arthur stood frozen.

"Arthur." His voice was no longer a call; it was a demand. Wordlessly, the Frenchman regained his position behind the shorter male, moving himself close so that there was no distance between his front and the other's back. When he received no response, no rebellion of his proximity, he knew at once that this was worse than he thought. "Arthur, come back to me." His voice, laced with seduction, was also uncharacteristically serious, but it still garnered no response. An arm reached out around the other's ear, and gently, as though with a lover, his gloved hand covered the other's eyes. The other arm snaked around the other's torso, pulling him closer. The other shuddered, and whether voluntarily or not, he leaned closer into the half-embrace, his back arching to fit the Frenchman's chest.

As delicately as with a baby, Francis stepped backwards, bringing the Briton with him. For a second, he was worried that his legs would not support him, but thankfully, the other had control of his limbs. Frowning, he continued this backward walk, feeling the temperature through his thin glove. Cold and clammy, with sweat slicked on his forehead, Arthur stuck to him wordlessly, his body spazzing every few seconds, but whenever Francis would tug on him gently, it would cease. With much effort, Francis managed to pull them back out into the glaring sunlight, where he slowly let go of the man and turned him around to face him.

Arthur's face was still frozen in shock, but at least some colour had returned to his lips. Without another word, Francis walked over to Yao. "Watch over 'im, _s'il vous plait_." The policeman nodded, pursing his lips. The Frenchman then walked back over to the Briton, eyes narrowing at his frozen companion. He leaned over close to the other, and still eliciting no reaction, removed the hat from the other's head and blessing his forehead with a quick peck, before he turned and re-entered the room reeking of death.

Well, that was unexpected. That was the first time someone had resisted his voice. How… _intéressante._

* * *

><p>AN: ... o.o I have no comment for this chapter, except that this is the LONGEST chapter I've written yet so far, even without the review replies. Uhm... yes, this I wrote in two days. LOL. Mostly because it's two separate events, but whoo, we all know Arthur is hella excited. WE CAN ALL TELL THAT, CAN'T WE? LET ME HEAR YOU ALL SAY YEAH. LMFAO. But yes, yes, I have some action here (okay, not so much, unless you count Francis touching Arthur "action") and FrUK action. Or is it... From the way Francis is thinking, it seems like a game to him. A very... _interesting _one. But I hope you loved this chapter as much as I loved writing it. I actually squeed writing it.

Also, that scene at the end is based on a scene from a manga/anime, it happened exactly like that, with dead bodies and someone covering the eyes. Does anyone know? /hinthint to callous-enigma

Now about the late update for next week, I have a really full work schedule, and I'm spending some family time, so if I don't update next week, please don't kill me! ;-; It will probably be up the week after that, and I know I update weekly, so this might be a bit of a bummer to those who read this fic, so I'm REALLY REALLY sorry. Please dun kill me! /hides behind Matthieu

Well, yeah, here you go. LOL. Uhm... yes, well, I have no other comment. I love these two. Period. XD (Duh, otherwise I wouldn't be writing a FrUK fic. Dur, dur.) So please, leave me feedback and reviews, if you wish, and have a good week, folks!

And now for some more fail Google translations! They are SUPER rough so please don't kill me! Dx

_Pourquoi êtes-vous si courts? Mais, ne vous mé prenez pas. Je pense que c'est vraiment intéressant. Tout comme vos yeux. Vous avez de beaux yeux. Si je vous ai demandé decoucher avec moi ce soir, le feriez-vous? _- Why are you so short? But do not take me wrong. I think it's really interesting. Like your eyes. You have beautiful eyes. If I asked you to sleep out with me tonight, would you?

_Je me le procurer - _Okay, okai, I get it


	8. Chapter 8

_**Shout-outs: **_Hurr we go.~

_callous-enigm_a - Hey, hey! I wasn't that bad, meanie! ... Okay, I am/was, but, but, you forgive me, right? I know you do, so now sense in asking, bwuahaha~ And no, you have not, so I really appreciate you telling me that now. And I'm REALLY thinking it's compliment since, well, you don't seem to really like a lot of things (. no offense intended), so yeah, happy RAN is happy! (Don't remind me, I really want to revive them... and one day, WE WILL. I SWEAR IT. WE WILL.) Now, now, try to control yourself, especially because your big line's coming up, "oh master of sarcasm". Yes, this is in this chapter, so have fun. P.S. You just hate anime girls in general. Maybe even real life ones. HATER.

_Readers-Section_ - Yes, yes, so do I! I mean, you can just tell Arthur wants to be all over him. /evil laugh And no worries about it getting better, because I hope it will. I'm hoping the next one amuses you too; it was actually a lot of fun writing it... or at least, that's what I recall when I was writing it. xD Also, the crime scene thing, I had to take a step in that direction; this IS a crime fic and I don't want it all around them in a daily life, although obviously that's unavoidable. But yeah, here you go, more crime-ness and... Francis/Arthur-ness! Also, I never did reply to your review to my work, Tea and Rain, so thanks for that! I really love when people take some time to review, and I thank you very much for your compliments. They always inspire me to keep writing~

_XxCapturetheLightxX_ - Ahaha, no problemo, I understand life can get a busy. (But if you ever abandon me again, I will feed you to a smex-starved Francis). As to what happened to Arthur, well, this next chapter is going to reveal that. And... wow, you are a violent fan of mine. I LIKE YOU. XD But yeah, honestly though, there is a purpose for her personality, and clues will be revealed throughout, though very subtly. VERY SUBTLY. And yes, of course, that is what FrUK is about, is it not? Gentleman. And a pervert. Yeeeep... that about sums it up. ... Yup. I love them, really. And nooo, you can get one! Just try harder and apply everywhere? I work at Wal-Mart for Pete's sake, it's not exactly a glory job, though. XDD

_fantasyAge_ - No problemo, I'm overdue this chapter, so... I'm probably worse. And of course, I do this to make sure reviewers know I appreciate them... and to you, I scold you. WORK ON A MORE NORMAL ONE, DANG YOU! Now in regards to this chapter, I do apologize. ): However, it continues on to this chapter below, and I cut it there for the sake of seeing Arthur's PoV, because the next scenes will be most efficient in conveying the message through his eyes. And ahaha, that's good, I'll be stalking your profile every now and again, then. And for the Spanish... I'll try but not promising anything. Probably be more comfortable with just the normal English and you people can imagine it in your heads, haha.

_Reviewer_ - I know, totally right? I'd probably be even grumpier than he is; I'm grumpy enough as it is. Really gives you something to laugh and think about: life sucks, but not as much as Arthur's does, ya know? And haha yes, I had to add some little interaction there; I do like Alfred and Arthur together... but as parent and son, not lovers, sorry to all USUK fans out there. Dx I especially love rebel!Alfred, so this is what happens. And yes, though if that was me, I'd be pining all over Francis, /evil laugh. Oh c'mon, who can resist his French sexiness? I'm sure as hell that I cannot, for sure, lawl.

_Fan_ - Thanks, yeah! Because zombies are just awesome, ya know? Had to make a reference to him in this one too. And of course not, FrUK is NEVER bad. Anyone who says otherwise should answer to Mr. Kumajiro, with his machine guns. Yeah, I went there. /

Now bow before the new chapter, weaklings!

* * *

><p>The images were much too vivid for him to take in. Too much, it was <em>too much<em>.

Overwhelming.

Seeing the bodies carved and mutilated on the floor had immediately displaced him into a trip down memory lane, a trip of which he would have never willingly taken. The blood was spattered on his face, on his hands, on his uniform, sticky and oozing as though it was coming out of him rather than the decapitated man in front of him. He saw it there on him again; he could feel the slimy, trickling fingers of the crimson liquid crawling down his cheeks, although he hadn't so much as touched the bodies that laid defaced on the floor, their faces and expressions visible for all to see. There was something missing, something missing, but he couldn't place his finger on it. But of course, he couldn't, for that was when the screaming began.

It started off as a low-pitch noise, a humming in the back of his head that could have been dismissed as a bird singing. However, the longer he looked at the bodies, defiled and so close to his feet, it grew louder and louder, until it matched a siren's decibel. The shrieks echoed in his skull, screaming, tearing every single nerve in his mind, and it was not long before his own ears were bleeding. It was the sound of a seashell on the ear; flowing liquid, but he knew that this time, the liquid had been discharged from his own body. The screaming intensified, and he knew his skull was cracking; the loud, breaking sounds were becoming more and more audible. And yet, the screaming worsened, sending a gush of water out of his ears, where it licked at his pinna and down his neck, tickling and sarcastically soothing. He tried – oh, god, how he _tried _– to reach up and wipe it away, to tell himself it was all a dream, but he could not. The wailing monster in his mind was successful, squeezing his brain in its alien grasp, causing a spurt of blood to escape his ears, soaking his already bloodstained uniform.

He could not wipe it, for if he did, it would do no good. His hands were covered in a dark red, viscous fluid, barely visible in the dim light, but he so yearned to. He wanted to scream, to yell out in agony in sync with the screaming voice in his head; the warm, trickling thing was disgusting. It felt as though his own brain was oozing out from his very eardrums, trickling onto the floor with steady _drip-drop_ sounds. He could only stare at the bodies, all of whom stared back, unblinking, and their mouths opened, then. They were grinning, those bastard things, mocking that they could move while he could not, so frozen in place by the invisible force of his fear. The pool that lay close to him gurgled in delight, and he heard his own breath hitch; he couldn't escape, not when he could not see, not when he could not hear… not when he could not _move_. He would be swallowed by the abyss, taken to hell to be the devil's advocate. And still yet, his own body would not recover, _could not _do so. He afforded a quick glance to his hands, the pores of now which were visible, and he could only stare in horror as the blood escaped in little spurts, ironical little springs of his life force dripping down his fingers and seducing them to come join them on the floor.

A bubble of fear, of pressure, rose up in his chest, and he wobbled; he was going to fall and drown in the blood, and join the corpses whose gleeful eyes stared at him in hungry delight. He would go and be desecrated with them. His mouth opened, to scream, to cry for help, but no such luck.

He would die.

As the bodies waited impatiently, they twitched now, desiring his presence with them. He tried to shake his head, but his mind had already been turned to mush by the alien creature that now inhabited it; no, no… _no._

Then all went black.

His mind, completely annihilated, could not register the feel of the leather glove against his eyes, but an outer sense _knew _it was there. Arthur didn't know what, couldn't tell up from down, but the hand, so familiarly placed, caused his muscles to relax. He found no more support from his legs, and he leaned backwards against the soft comfort of another body, wishing he could curve more into the warmth, uncaring. He could hear a bubbling sound from behind him, but his ears, still sprouting blood, refused to comprehend them. It was a mumbled sound; it was not his language. But he had a sinking feeling that even if he did, he would not be able to reply; the fear of the blood drooling from his mouth as well was too much. Was it not enough from his ears and hands?

There was a jostling sound, and he felt himself yanked backwards softly; he did not resist. There was nothing in him left to resist; his willpower to fight back had been so thoroughly crushed and defeated by the wailing banshee. Luckily enough, it had spared his nerves and spinal control; his legs bent and retracted and straightened repeatedly. It was almost mechanical, the way his knees controlled themselves, for he knew his own had been shattered; it took almost all he had not to collapse.

They were walking, him and… _what_- or _who_- ever it was. Walking, walking and walking, and as they did, the ringing in his ears slowly subsided, but it would not go down without a fight. It wailed and shrieked, as though it was aware of its own demise. The volume decreased gradually, but now his mind throbbed to scream another question; when would they stop walking? His legs shivered, unbalanced, and it felt as though they had been trudging about for an hour. He could not take much more of this. Mind and body were much too exhausted for any more movement, any more resistance, any more strain, any more… anything.

As though hearing his thoughts, bright light filtered through the leather glove – he had enough sense to tell that much now – and the hand around his eyes was retracted. He almost hissed at the sudden influx of the luminance as his irises struggled to adjust, but again, his muscles would not cooperate. That made him doubly surprised that his body – he had regained the knowledge of its existence – stood straight once the hold had been relinquished. However, the sudden absence made him yearn for it more; did it not understand that he was bleeding to death?

And then, there was a touch against his forehead – and the smell of roses – and he blinked. The shrieking stopped, his body was dry, and he was met with the retreating figure of Francis Bonnefoy.

… Now, what in the bloody _hell _just happened?

Arthur blinked again, rubbing his head as though he'd just been struck there. Groaning, he looked around, unnerved at the huge blank that had been erected in his mind. He was so concentrated on unlocking it that he hadn't noticed that a certain, black-haired, Chinese policeman was now peering over him, head tilted in both confusion and curiosity.

"Are you alright, aru?"

"Urgh…" he groaned, unaware of the other's proximity due to the disconcerting feeling of blankness in his head. "What happened?"

"Search me, aru." As if to prove his point, he shrugged. "You went in there with your buddy and disappeared for about five minutes. Next thing I knew, he was dragging you out of there, aru."

"What?" A wave of panic and confusion engulfed him; what had he missed? And in the first place, _why _had he missed what he did? Without meaning to, he stumbled backwards, one arm luckily finding stability on the hood of a police car. He shut his eyes, now straining harder against the invisible binds that shadowed his memories. It was like ramming against a brick wall – painful and useless. He could feel his willpower fade, feeling his consciousness slip with it; for some reason, he felt exhausted beyond belief.

But why…? Suddenly, he felt a frown cross his features, a sense of stubbornness emanating from within him. Like _hell _he was going to lose to this… whatever _this_ was!

Gritting his teeth and sucking in a deep breath, Arthur mustered as much inner strength as he could, exploding the force against the equally stubborn barrier. He smirked as he felt it crack, slowly at first, before the pieces spread and fell unevenly in his mind. There, behind all the debris, was the information he was looking for, the information that was both anticlimactic and frankly, embarrassing.

There, he saw it, if not in the form a blurry montage. He had entered the room first, as his job as a bodyguard because good lord, that frog could not be trusted. If anything, he had half-expected the man to go fondle a female's corpse, which he knew was most definitely not above him. But when he had arrived first, surveying the scene, he had taken one good look at the blood pools that lay everywhere before he completely blacked out; even after winning his war against the mental block, he found that his senses had been completely overwhelmed from that point on. It was no wonder why he had been so exhausted.

But when in the hell had the frog come in? If anything, that part had irritated him more than the blemished recollections. He swore, if he had so much as _touched _him inappropriately, there was going to be hell and more to pay. One did _not _mess with a highly cranky and pissed-off Brit. _Nobody._

Contemplating on ways that the frog could have defiled him (and possibly what concentration and type of acid he could afford to boil all over his body now that he was certain that he was now tainted; he also made a mental note to grab the strongest, most acidic one he could and replace the other's drink with it), Arthur had lost note of his surroundings, if temporarily. Engrossed as he was, he hadn't noticed the other's arrival until said taller blonde (how the pervert had grown to be so tall was beyond him) was towering over him, a teasing smile on his face – in other words, a sneer in Arthur terms.

Would it be a crime to bash his skull in? As long as it wasn't murder, that wasn't too bad, right?

"And just what, in the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Get your mingy face away from me!" He exclaimed, aiming for a punch at the other's face (why the hell it was still so smug, he did not know; actually, he wasn't quite sure he _wanted _to know). Said punch was easily caught in the other's palm, an action that surprised him greatly. Not only had there been sufficient force behind it, but he'd given the other basically no warning. His eyes narrowed, but then suspicious thoughts were cast away when the other pulled him closer, still staring… still sneering.

Oh, how he wanted to bash that face in.

"Oh, 'allo. Welcome back, _mon britannique_," Francis said, a hint of emotion playing across his eyes. It looked something akin to curiosity, but then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Had he just imagined it?

Arthur grit his teeth, annoyed that his senses had been so slowed down to a point that he hadn't noticed their proximity (again) until the other's breath hit him on the face, and he viciously yanked his hand away and took a few steps backward, a movement that was limited due to the fact that the police car was still behind him. Irritated beyond all belief, he sent the car a glaring look.

Damn car.

"I said, get away from me, wanker! And I don't ever recall _leaving_. Did the heat just so happen to fry your brains… or what was left of it anyway?" he asked sarcastically.

Francis tilted his head; there was definitely an odd look of inquisitiveness behind his luminous eyes. He thought perhaps the other's slow mind was trying to formulate a response; he wouldn't put it past him to have the analytical skills of a _goat_. However, when he was met with a totally irrelevant reply, it further enhanced his theory of having been somehow desecrated by the damn frog, and he couldn't help but have the strongest desire to run to the nearest cliff and jump off of it.

"Oh hon, hon, hon, hon." Francis stepped forward, locking him against the hood of the car, but thankfully, made no more movements to invade his personal space (honestly, did that term even exist in the bastard's vocabulary?). "_Intéressante__."_

"What is, frog?"

"So you don't remember, _oui_?" The other frowned, looking down at him with scrutinizing eyes. As he was about to ask, he waved his hand, dismissing the matter. "So, back to 'ze matter at 'and." Arthur grimaced; what, did this man have some sort of split personality? He shook his head; no, if he tried to figure that out, he had a feeling he would implode trying to do so. So he kept his mouth shut, staring at the other and waiting for him to continue with rapt attention. The policemen around them also had the same keen interest, and even Yao Wang had stopped staring at him like he was about to keel over (what was _that _about?)

"_Oui_, so 'ze bodies are two females and _un __homme_. At first, it looked like a typical murder scene, what wiz' 'ze bloody everywhere." (Arthur didn't miss the quick glance that was thrown his way, and an eyebrow rose in consternation. _Honestly_, did he have something on his face?) "'Owever, I tried not to move 'ze bodies too much when I checked, but 'zey all have a common theme. All of 'zem had been stabbed in 'ze 'eart once, and all of 'zeir eyes 'ave been gouged out." He blanched, as though something sour had been put into his mouth, while Arthur visibly paled just trying to imagine such a scenario, before his mind was once again sent reeling. How had he missed that crucial fact? And just why, in _the name of the Queen_, could he _not _remember? "'Zey were 'zen moved – I guess, from 'ze way 'zere are blood tracks as though 'zey 'ad been dragged – to form… _un Y __invers__é__. _Ah… 'ow do you call 'eet… _un… _peace sign? 'Eet looked like 'ze eyes were gouged out –" again, Arthur cringed – "after 'zey 'ad been stabbed. And… 'zat is all."

"Wow… aru," Yao said, the first to break the awkward and horrified silence that had descended upon them all. "That is… unbelievable, aru. Where there any clues, aru?"

The Frenchman shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in that typical "French" manner; a motion too relaxed for such a scenario, in Arthur's head. "_Non_. 'Eet 'ees clean, aside from 'ze bodies, of course. I tried, but no such luck. _Je suis désolé__._"

Yao looked downcast, his shoulders shrugged down as though the weight of the whole incident was upon his shoulders, a fact that Arthur somehow found himself empathizing with. He only knew the pain of what it was like to see something and not be able to do _anything _about it. His job was much too constricting, and now he was stuck as a mere bodyguard for a frog. Life just couldn't have gotten any sweeter.

There was collective sigh of resignation, and finally, the Briton thought it was about time he speak; why let the _frog_ gain all the attention? "So, what you're saying is, we're dealing with someone who seems prone to violent tendencies." Francis looked up at him, mildly surprised. "Judging by the organs attacked, one can tell a little bit about the killer, especially if he's a predictable psychotic. For example," he began, starting to pace back and forth, his head creased with a frown as he stared at the ground, "the heart. It's a very personal organ, don't you think, both in the literal and metaphoric aspects. Often used in plays with the connotation "broke my heart" and coupled with the fact that the heart is what keeps the body alive, one can assume that perhaps the killer takes this personally… perhaps as a stab to his own heart? As for the eyes, I can't quite guarantee anything yet, but as to the fact that they were gouged out _after _they had been killed suggests that the killer feels guilt… or wants to play with the bodies. Either way, the safest bet is that this man is violent, and from the looks of this rather sarcastic symbol he's painted, he's bound to strike again."

Arthur looked up after his ramble, surprised that it had suddenly gone so eerily quiet. Everyone, including Francis and Yao, were staring at him with their mouths agape (from this distance, he was pretty certain he could throw something in the frog's mouth and choke him; now that would have made his day). "… And… that is all," he continued, unsure. Had he said something wrong?

Francis was the first to recover – but of course he was, being probably too stupid to realize the situated, but he digressed – by whistling. "My, my, _mon ami_, 'ow impressive." Somehow, coming from him, it sounded more like an insult, degrading, and Arthur resisted the urge to throw something at his head (what was this now, the fifth urge?). _He _hadn't been particularly helpful, so he did not, in any way, deserve to insult him! "And you figured all 'zis out from what I said?" Arthur nodded cautiously, wary. "Ah hon, hon, hon, I guess your short size masks your big brain, _oui_?"

… Did he just say what he thought he said?

That frog did _not _just go there.

"And your gigantic stature barely even has enough room for your libido, let alone something like a brain," he retorted, not caring about the glances that were being cast his way by the bemused Francis (oh, how he wanted to wipe that smirk off his face) and the bewildered policemen.

Francis balked, raising both hands out in a surrender position. "Calm down, Arthur! 'Eet was not meant to insult; you are _si sensibles_! But do not 'esitate!" His arms were now open, as though waiting for an embrace. "Release all your tensions on bruzzer' Francis, _non_? I will show you all you need to know abou-"

"Git!" Another insult bubbled to his lips, but it burst as soon as a strange sound entered into hearing range. Had there been more noise than the gaping silence surrounding them, he was quite sure that he wouldn't have been able to hear it, but he had. Eyes widening in surprise, forgetting their petty little argument (but he was sure to pick it up later), he frowned as he deciphered brushing sounds from close-by. It sounded like someone wiping a piece of cloth against a rough, concrete wall. It was nothing more than a low humming sound, nothing too discernible, and he would have easily let it go too, had it not then, been for the movement that caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

There, just barely visible by the corner of the post office in a vain attempt at spying (he could guess this much, judging by the way the man's – he could only assume such from the stature – angle was tilted in a way that the square of his body was hidden, but that his neck was craned around the wall as he no doubt strained to hear) was a stranger clad in black. A black, long-sleeved shirt and what was visible of a pair of black trousers were topped off by a black ski mask that covered the majority of his face. As Arthur looked over at him, studying him, there was a second of eye contact. A jolt of electricity shocked him into waking up, and as though struck by the same force, the man's eyes widened, before he turned on his heel and ran off.

As though by instinct, he felt a surge of adrenaline race through him, and before he had placed too much thought on what he was doing, he was also running off in a similar direction, gun held in his hand as he yelled, "Oi! Freeze!" He ignored a confused Francis, who was no doubt wondering who he was talking to; he could care less right now as he could be dealing with the potential killer right then and there.

_Finally_, he thought, _finally_,_ a chance to redeem myself and show those bastards!_ Deep in thoughts of concealed pride, he just barely noticed the footsteps trailing behind him, footsteps that belonged to his charge.

Eyes trained on the escapee, Arthur watched as the other ducked into a nearby alleyway, dark and concealed that somehow brought a wave of both nausea and nostalgia all at once. Oh, how absolutely ecstatic he was to undergo that situation again; he only hoped this time that he wouldn't have guts and blood spit all over him like it had last time. If it was going to happen, well, he wasn't certain what to say about his sanity… and Francis' face. There was no doubt it would come out of this unscathed.

He followed suit, turning sharply into the dark recesses of the alleyway, with no end in sight. He stopped for a moment; it was much too like the maze that was the Louisiana alleyway system; there was no tell-tale sure-fire way that he would be able to make his way out, let alone find his way back. His mind calculated the possibilities; he could turn back now and be fine with it, and enlist the help of the officials to capture the culprit, or he could go ahead while he could still _see _the culprit and possibly end up wandering the maze for who-knew-how-long.

He snorted. The choice was clear.

More footsteps pounded on the floor, his more erratic and rapid than the other's. He could hear the person's hitched breath in time with his, though it was clear to him which of them was faster. Left, right, another right and a straight path ahead for what looked to be a few meters, and Arthur found the man pressed against a wall, eyes widened through the mask as attempted to catch his breath. Hands on his knees for a second, the blonde extended both of his arms outward, their palms training the gun on the unknown person's chest. Eyes narrowing, Arthur took a few tentative steps forward; there was no telling what the alien would do. He knew, after all, that when humans were faced with inevitable defeat with no way around, they would turn savage at any point and claw their way out, no matter what it took. And if this one fit that category, Arthur was also ready to do what it took – and that was, shoot.

"Alright, hands up where I can see them, mate," the blonde ordered. The other did so gradually, shivering, eyes black under the shadows of the wall. "Keep them up, now." He then sauntered forward, gun still raised and cocked. His footsteps were muted in the silent halls, but echoed sharply around them. As he walked forward, he released one hold on the gun, that hand manoeuvring towards his belt where the handcuffs hung. He was extremely careful not to let his eyes wander while doing so, keeping his calm head and meticulous nature on high alert until he was just literally a few metres away from the other.

And then, there was blinding pain against his skull.

A sound of pain escaped his lips as Arthur felt himself bludgeoned, then thrown against the wall with such force that the cats that had hidden themselves in nearby trashcans yowled and ran. The gun clattered a few inches from his limp hand, and he found himself half-sitting, half-standing uncomfortably as a tight force exploded from his chest; someone was lifting him up by his shirt. Blinking profusely and trying to clear his mind of the maddening pain, he forced his eyes to narrow and focus, to understand the situation.

He _hated _it when he didn't know something.

Through the throbbing from his back, he could make out the shape of a human figure. Green eyes were made out, but not in the same lustre as his own were. Close to shoulder-length, brown hair waved from atop the scalp, framing a face that was half-hidden in the darkness, but not so hidden that he could not make out the sneer on the man's face, an expression contorted into perverted sadism.

"Nice one, Toris," came a voice from his left, and from the corner of his eye (he couldn't bloody well _move_, dammit), saw the one in the mask move into his line of sight, removing the mask on his face and revealing a shorter male with blonde hair and purple eyes that were almost the colour of black in the dim light. "He almost got me there."

"Shut up, Raivis," "Toris" replied, before smacking Arthur against the wall one more time, this time lifting him off of the floor. The Briton gasped for the air that was so selfishly pried away from him, little by little. "You're so fucking careless. I ought to kill _you_ next, you cheeky little retard." The man looked away for a second to cast the other an expression that must have only been so obscenely terrifying that it had the seemingly younger male backing a few steps backward.

There was a cough then, this time from the right; what the _hell_, there were three of them? Straining his neck to get a good view – and, predictably, slammed against the wall – of the person, Arthur found himself facing the tallest of the trio, whose only visible feature he could see was his brown hair that was just a few shades lighter than the one who was lifting (_lifting_, his arse), and glasses. This one exuded an aura of silence; whereas the other two were predictably easy to figure out, this one seemed to have his personality all covered up – an inconvenient thing for Arthur. "Toris, we don't fight among ourselves. Take care of that." He nodded towards Arthur.

"Eduard." Toris snorted, looking as though he was about to ignore the order, but nodded in reply and turned back to his "victim". Arthur glared at him with an expression of unfathomable hatred and disgust, but this seemed to be hilarious to the other, who started laughing. "Oh, look at this. The little prissy goody-two-shoes thinks he can play the game."

"At least I can think, you pompous twat," he squeezed out, against his better judgment. Almost immediately he bit his tongue; that… might not have been the right time to say such a thing, but this man was just so _infuriatingly _stupid. He regretted it all the more when he was lifted off the wall, and slammed right back, and whatever air was left in his lungs was forced out. He began to see stars as his breathing became more and more laboured.

_Dammit_, he was not going to die here.

"Smart-ass." There was no warning aside from the derogatory word, before a punch connected on his face. There was no break after, when again another one came, this time striking his right cheek, and because his arms were hanging uselessly on the side, all he could – all he _would _– do was keep his cries of pain silent, whilst glaring at the other in defiance. There was no bloody way in hell this bastard was going to crack him… though, at this rate, he would fade into unconsciousness soon. He felt the sticky, warm liquid flow in front of his face, and he knew then, before he winced instinctively, that his nose had been broken. The blackness was becoming a more dominant part of his vision, and it was only his stubborn mind that refused to succumb to it. Who knew what they would do if he sank into the world of dreams?

Still, he couldn't do much from his current situation, and his vision was failing, his reflexes slowing as the "Toris" character studied him, raising his fist once more. However, just before the blow struck – sending a highly uncomfortable ringing sound in his ears – a flash of blue caught his attention. It was unmistakeable, it was _that _arrogant shade of blue that he'd seen just a few moments ago.

Francis.

He opened his mouth and started to call for him – if that was even remotely possible with the lack of air in his lungs – but stopped short. What was he doing? There was no way that the frog would ever let him live it down after this, and on the off-chance that he did, Arthur could never forgive himself. Gritting his teeth, he battled with the internal turmoil; dammit, why was it so hard to choose? Pros and cons flicked through his mind, but in the end, he decided – albeit grudgingly (emphasis on the grudgingly) – that he would rather not have his hellish life come to an abrupt halt… at least, not like this. With a weakening mind then, he turned his neck a bit more, just in time to make eye contact with stunning blue ones. He didn't need to scream; their wordless communication was enough, and unless the frog was bloody blind as well as stupid, there was no way to miss the situation he was in.

But he thought wrong.

Francis had been concealed enough in the darkness, having hidden himself just in time when he no doubt heard the commotion. However, once eye contact was made, he did the most unbelievable thing that even Arthur thought he couldn't have been capable of: he ran away. Yes, the male merely looked like he was stifling laughter, before he winked at the Briton, offering him a petty wave, then tiptoeing out of sight, until he was camouflaged in the darkness.

He couldn't believe it. Whatever ounce of respect he had for him (as unlikely as that already was) went down the drain. An ultimate sense of betrayal flooded him, opening a gate that he thought had already been buried underneath this immense physical strain: anger. Hot, boiling fury at the person who had been his charge, someone whom he thought would have at least an _ounce_ of dignity in him… but he thought wrong. Francis was always the one who proved him wrong. _Always_. And he had enough of it; this betrayal and abandonment was the last straw.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Arthur extended his brain's control towards his legs, before making them kick the other man as strongly possible in the torso. Surprised and unexpecting of resistance, Toris grunted, releasing Arthur from the firm hold. The other two, flabbergasted, moved just a second too late, for Arthur had already made a beeline for his gun. Once the two saw this, they hesitated, but Toris seemed to be the exception. The madman, crazed from the pain and sudden strike, lunged out at him. He was, of course, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and his legs didn't quite cooperate with him except to inform him that a strong hand had hold of him. Slightly panicked, Arthur looked down at the spot to find Toris sprawled on the ground, clutching where he had been struck, but one hand wrapped around his ankle. At the same time, he glanced at the two others who were now recovering from their shock, inching towards him.

There was no other choice.

Deft fingers pulled on the cold hard metal, aimed low. A shot echoed in the secluded space, amplified by the walls, followed quickly by a roar of pain. The hold on his leg was immediately released, a fact that he quickly took advantage of. Only a short glance was spared towards the other, who clutched his shoulder as red seeped through it, before he darted past the opening, blindly in any direction as long as he _got away_. Despite the haze of panic, he knew that he had no chance against the three of them (he admitted bitterly; there went his damned chance at redemption).

Panting, heart racing, he felt himself on the verge of a heart attack when, upon rounding a corner, he felt a hand around his mouth. A muffled cry escaped his lips (was this give-the-policeman a heart attack day?) as he was pulled towards the unknown body, and his hand twisted as he attempted to get the gun pointed at this next alien. However, before he could do so, a cutting voice that grated on his nerves spoke, a voice he was most definitely _not _welcoming at that moment.

"Relax, relax, _mon britannique_," Francis began, releasing his hold on the other and eyes drifting warily to the gun that was now halfway pointed at him. "Will you put 'zat down?"

The rage that had been easily replaced by survival instinct roared back with resurrected life. Instead of doing what he had asked, the gun was now fully pointed at him, aimed dead center at his forehead. At this distance, he knew that there was no way he could miss as his mouth twisted into a spiteful grimace. "I should bloody well shoot you after what you did back there, you fucking twit! What in the bloody hell was that about?"

Francis, still eyeing the piece warily, broke out into a smile that had Arthur taking one step forward, so that the gun was now touching his forehead. "Well… ah, you see, you _are_ my bodyguard, are you not? I thought to myself, if 'e cannot take care of 'imself 'ere, what use would you be as one?" He shrugged. "So, I decided to let you fight for yourself. _Comprendre__?_"

"No, I do _not _understand!" Rage consumed his mind, fury overcame his senses, and so, practical sense and reason were thrown out the window. He glared at the other, stepping forward and pressing the cold metal on the other's forehead, causing him to take a step backwards. "I could have been _killed_, and all you care about is a _test_? You shallow _frog_, I should kill you right now and end my misery!"

The other showed no visible reaction, except perhaps to shrug again, his face still a smile. He could not, for the love of him, understand how someone could be so calm in the face of an armed and loaded firearm, but he chalked it up to the man's sheer idiocy. "You won't kill me, _mon ami_, you know why?" Arthur held his breath, waiting for some outrageous reason. "Because you love me, 'zat 'ees why."

Eyebrow twitching, the Briton cocked his gun, his face closer to Francis than he would have ever dreamed it would be. Emerald eyes stared into blue pools, his filled with hatred and loathing now – no amount of time would ever repair the flimsy trust and self-respect that had been thrown away – against calmer, laughing ones. "I'll tell you why I won't kill you right now, _frog_," he hissed, resisting the urge (oh, the wonderful urge) to pull the trigger and let it all be done. "I won't do it because I have a job to do. I won't do it because I don't want to risk hurting my family again. I won't do it because it would be one _fucking_ waste of a bullet. Bloody git, don't be so full of yourself."

Although he was hard-pressed to do it, Arthur retracted his gun, stowing it in his holster, before turning heel and moving away from Francis. He would honestly rather get lost than be anywhere within ten metres of him right now.

* * *

><p>It almost seemed like totally different time when Arthur arrived back in the confines of his abode. But he had just barely arrived when he had to leave again; there was just time to change into a more casual set of clothes before his next appointment. Glancing at the clock, he sighed in relief as he found himself on time, if not, a tad early. The business with the frog had ended quickly, to which he was thankful; he wasn't quite certain how much more of him he could take that day.<p>

Or week. Or month, even. But of course, there were pure delusions and fantasies. He had a – he shuddered to think it – job to do, whether he liked it or not. And as he had so plainly stated to the man's gutless face, he would stick around for various reasons. He would just have to grin and bear it.

Or, just bear it. Grinning would be too painful and just asking for too much.

Plopping into the car seat, as the Sonata purred to life, Arthur found himself replaying the events of the day, as much as he did not want to. Despite his irritation at the mind block that still prevented him from accessing all parts of the information, the one thing that truly stood out was the feeling of complete shock, hurt and betrayal at Francis. He didn't know why it _bothered_ him so much, only that it did, and that in itself was enough for him to pull his hair out (thankfully, his hands were rather busy on the steering wheel). After a few minutes of pondering, he had let it go; there would be no sense in going insane for someone like _him_. Plus, on that rare occasion, he had glimpsed at the bright side to all this: he would see no more of Francis until the day after, which was all well. He wasn't sure just how stable his mind was at that moment.

A few minutes' drive was all it took before he found himself in front of a densely populated school of Alfred's. Tonight was the parent-teacher meetings, and the teachers had repeatedly called for him to come attend to discuss his son's "behaviour". He rolled his eyes; he could already very well guess, but it seemed as though he had no other choice under Michelle's glaring eyes. With a sigh, he shut the car off, adjusting his tie, and walking into the school and making his way to the second floor.

He had agreed to meet Alfred somewhere there – room 204, if he recalled correctly – and they would have a quick talk with three of his six teachers. How wonderfully exciting. Three teachers spouting nonsense about his son all night long; he would sooner spend more time with Franci- No, scratch that. He would rather gouge his eyes out, actually.

… How hilariously ironic.

Climbing up the stairs and opening the doors to the hallway, Arthur found a mess of blonde hair just a few feet away, which he thought was strange. If he recalled, room 204 was on the other side of the corridor, so why was Alfred here? He had probably forgotten their appointment time; Alfred had never been the smartest bulb in the box. He then walked forward, waving his arm at the other as he slowly approached, calling, "Oi, Alfred!"

When he was close enough to the boy, he turned, and Arthur found himself staring into a pair of lavender eyes, a gentle contrast to Alfred's sky blue ones. Confused, he stared at the other, who stared back, until he finally decided to break the silence. "… Alfred?" Unless his son had somehow gotten into the coloured contacts phase, he highly doubted this was him… despite the _obscenely _similar appearance. In fact, they could have been twins, if not for the subtle difference in hairstyle (one of which he had so meticulously cut; Alfred hadn't been too impressed) and eye colour. He frowned at the other, who merely offered him an innocent expression that reminded him painfully of Alfred before they had moved.

"_J-je suis _désolé__. _M-mon nom __n'est p-pas __A-Alfred_," he paused, hesitating, before clearing his throat. "I… I am _Matthieu._"

Arthur could only offer him a blank stare, before… "_Who?_"

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, here we are, a week late.~ I've decided that my updates will be on Fridays, especially since I'm looking at my schedule in advance, and usually, I'd have more muse on Fridays since you know, end of the week and all that. But as I promised, here's the chapter. Now for mah awesome possum comments.

... So what do you guys think? I had Arthur's PoV here, and yes, he actually swears towards the end; I mean come _on_, wouldn't you? If you think about it, I'd probably have slapped him myself; Arthur obviously has more self-control than I do... And and, don't you feel bad for him, being all traumatized like that? Dx Probably doesn't help being attacked right after, but you know me, sadistic towards one of my fave characters!

Also, I was planning on starting another Angels/Demons-type fic, but I was going to do a SpainxEngland pairing, because I sort of want to dedicate it to my friend. Buuut, would this be any good? I just want opinions; I know this is not a popular pairing so I'm wondering if any of you would read it or think you'd know anyone who would. xD

Also, first one with no translations, haha. Be proud!

Also, my favourite line... the last line. 'Nuff said.

See ya next week, peoplez~


	9. Chapter 9

**Shout-outs:** _Deemo _- Thanks very much, and I do apologize for that. Dx I had a feeling I overdid it a bit, but I was more or less trying to prove a point, trying to empathize and see what it would personally be like actually being traumatized to a point of immobility. I obviously have no such recollection of being traumatized (and I hope not), so I just went on a wing here. However, if you do have suggestions as to what I could have done/what I could do in future chapters, that would be very much appreciated! And alright then, good to hear. (: I do realize now there's a lot of SpUK fics... just in Spanish, which is great but not helpful to some avid English SpUK fans. xD

_Readers-Section_ - Oh, well thank you very much! A conflicting opinion from Deemo's, and I'm grateful that it did leave a mark on you, as that was what I was going for, though I still do fear that I may have overdone it a bit. There's something to be said about me being long-winded, which arrives at the fact that I'm making a chaptered fiction. xD Please don't hesitate to comment if I am being such, and I will try to cut down. After all, it's just as good making shorter paragraphs that are more direct and straight to the point. In regards to the crime scene, yes, thank you! xD I think that's the hardest part of a crime fic, where the main char is smart, slightly more so than the audience, but not by much. I was actually looking at how to do those sorts of things, and usually they recommend having a leader character (Arthur here) and a secondary character (Francis) whose intellect would be that of a common person's. I used that since Francis would be more of the "physical" part of the duo, in the fact that he's the sniper with agile reflexes. Also, watching Criminal Minds and CSI for hours on end helps, I'll give you that. You should try it. 8D Also, for the Baltics, yes! Bet you didn't see that coming; I purposely made it like that so not just anyone could guess who they were at a glance. I did retain an element of the group revealed in a later chapter, but for now, I'll keep that a secret. Also, I realize as I was writing the next chapter that I had Francis with a little bit of a sadistic streak for some reason, which I think could be sort of understandable given the circumstances of his job. I only thought it be fitting that some of it carry on to some other parts of his life... and unfortunately, it is to Arthur. And. Because. He. Just. Is. Just don't kill him. )x

_callous-enigma _- Thanks for still reading, oh fangirl of mine (did I get that...?)! Pft, but by saying that, you are responding! And... whatever you say, I can never tell with you. It's like you lack this thing called excitement, I won't say "emotion" since your being laidback can... sort of be considered an emotion. But thank you very much~ Also, who said you could read at one in the morning? Damn you and your insomnia! I demand you read my fics at an actual normal time, and before you go on about your definition of "normal", you know what I mean. And of course I did; I said I would, wouldn't I? Props to you~ And don't worry, Francis will get shot... eventually. I just know when it will be, and it won't be now. P.S. That was very helpful. Thanks for narrowing that down for me, Ms. Pessimism.

_XxCapturetheLightxX _- No, _starved_. The threat wouldn't have worked otherwise, gosh. And OH GEE, well THANKS. I can tell how much you love me! I hope smex-starved Francis does get you, so hah, there! Enjoy (I'm not sure if I was being sarcastic here or not LOL)! Oh, really? That's sweet! Hello then, fellow Canadian. xD We are just so awesome, eh? But wait, then why are you in the States (aka Canada's pants)? But that sucks though, although I'm not saying having a job is exactly glamorous; it just kills me and I'm actually looking forward to school now. xD And... yes, HE is. Well, I think you would be too if someone's head got split open and the blood and brains and whatever else was in said head splattered all over you. I think it would just be a tiny bit more of a push and something like this would happen... I think. LOL, yeah, I did that on purpose because I didn't want anyone guessing Toris/Raivis right off the bat, so I hope you liked that little element of surprise. As to the line, I obviously could not resist adding that; who could? The invisible powers strike again! And... wow, you perverted person. Actually, I will sick smex-starved Francis on you, since you seem so _comfortable_ with it! And kay, good to hear, but I have to settle out the plot details. And as for my updates, my A/N will mention it.

_fantasyAge _- You didn't submit a review but I wanted to thank you publicly for the little Spanish assistance. I'll try to learn, but knowing me, I'll probably get to it in a week or something. /extremely lazy Thanks again for that!

_Reviewer _- Oh, my, thank you for this lovely review. It was insightful and gave me some feedback on my writing, and you pointed out things that I would have never bothered to look at, or had forgotten about entirely. Now, I don't exactly agree with you in that PoV aspect; I love them both, and if anything, I like Arthur's better. I'm a sarcastic person in real life (though not as bad as callous-enigma here), so I can empathize sometimes. Just not in the points where he'd rather gouge his eyes out, but everything else about how life basically sucks and that it's quite hard to find anything positive in life in general. I know, depressing, but it's not that bad. I don't go around pointing out the suckiness of everything (like Arthur)... though I'm close to doing so, ahaha. But make no mistake; Francis' PoV is good too, especially when I'm feeling empty-headed or "happier", in general. That's when I find I do my best work. Also, I love your analysis of their relationship. That was what I was going for, almost all of it! You actually just gave me an idea (and I won't tell, of course!) and so you better just keep looking forward to it; I'll probably credit you for it, or you'll just catch it. And yes, yes, I love the crime scene too; it was a pain to write because of the length, but it was balanced due to the fact that it was also fun to do. It continues on to the next chapter (which I assume you haven't read yet), so you'll understand just what happened to Arthur. Thanks for following!

_Fan _- Haha, yes, again, this was inspired by Criminal Minds/CSI. Honestly, I was just sitting there, with a pen and paper in hand, glaring at the screen and waiting for muse to come burst out of the TV. This is the baby of such a distorted muse and forced TV watching session. Hopefully it was good though, and if you liked this scene, I'll try to have more in the future! xD Please stay tuned!

Rawr, rawr, here we go!~

* * *

><p>Ah, ah, what was he to do now? What a little dilemma this was, he pondered, as he sighed and weaved deft fingers through the mess that was <em>ses <em>_beaux cheveux_. His precious little bodyguard was infuriated with him, and probably wouldn't pass up the first chance to shoot him. (To be honest, there was a split second where he was quite certain he would shoot, but he had caught a quick flash of hesitation of which he had played upon by teasing him; perhaps not the best idea, but it was much too fun to pass up). Not to mention, he'd actually aimed a gun at him. At _him_. At any other time, he would have thought it ridiculous; how _dare _he threaten such a beautiful face? But no, he didn't feel that at that moment. No, if he had to sum it up in one word, he was… _amusé._

And very much so.

Chuckling, Francis sauntered over behind the huffing, shorter male, sparing a quick glance behind them, eyes searching the darkness for any signs of movement. As there was no such thing, he shrugged and moved forward, still quite unbelieving of the things that had transpired. He had never had anyone threaten him so openly (the females were, more often than not, quite submissive, and if any such words of aggression left them, it was that of pure pleasure, courtesy of him), let alone point a firearm at him. Well, he supposed he couldn't blame the other, although hadn't that just been a _little _aggressive? After all, he'd done was leave him in an alley with men who looked like complete thugs; surely there was nothing wrong with that? He knew he would have lived, or otherwise, as he had mentioned, he would be no good to him as a bodyguard.

Perhaps he could even say it was a test.

As to the reason, however, behind conducting a test, he couldn't quite fathom. Perhaps there was some deep, underline psychological reason that he had almost abandoned the man to die on a whim… Oh, who was he kidding? Of course there was no such thing; Francis Bonnefoy very rarely took things on such a serious level (thus explaining the one-night and occasional two-night stands; he wasn't quite sure he could survive with no females or luscious sex for more than two days), and that didn't exclude his motive behind the action. He would have to admit it, well, at least to himself. The sole reason he had done such a thing was because it was _funny_ to him, amusing. The British man was just such a fun toy for him to play with, something he could toss around and use to entertain himself with. Much like a child and their fire truck, he would outgrow it and hold no sort of attachment to it; he might as well enjoy Arthur while he lasted, no?

Plus, his reactions were really quite to die for… even if he had almost just died.

But… of course, he couldn't die. He was _the _Francis; his name was immortal. Little Arthur and his little gun were all a game – albeit extremely dangerous – he finally found himself extremely willing to play. Perhaps being assigned a bodyguard wasn't too bad, after all.

* * *

><p>Arriving back at the crime scene, Francis had noted that Arthur was now out of sight. Blue eyes skimmed the area before the landed their sights on an extremely tense figure in the vehicle that they had used to drive here, his fists white as he glared murderously at the steering wheel, like he was about to snap it in half. The Frenchman suppressed a giggle; now, wasn't that just too much? He wouldn't have protested releasing such tensions upon him (preferably in bed), but was the car to suffer? Sometimes, he really couldn't predict what was in that man's head, and with the earlier events…<p>

He shook his head; what had that been all about? Clearly, Arthur could not remember a moment of the incident; well, it was either that, or he was a very professional actor. He highly doubted the latter. He might not have the smarts and seeming investigative and deducing skills that Arthur possessed, but he could at least conclude that the other was someone who did not hold back his thoughts and feelings, no matter what. Why he would have pretended to forget about being such an adorable little damsel in distress, let alone allow himself to be so easily touched, was just out of the question. He could only conclude that there had been some sort of trauma, some sort of incident, but he really couldn't have cared too much at that point. He was too busy holding back his laughter at staring at the man who was still as a statue and still throwing the steering wheel a death glare.

No doubt the other wanted to escape, but first, there was business to take care of; luckily, Arthur had made it easy by shutting himself off from the world around him. This couldn't have been done if he was within hearing range.

Approaching the policeman, Francis spoke in a low voice. "_Oui_, so as discussed, we shall take 'ze bodies out of your 'ands. 'Ze Agency will be dispatching crime scene investigators and keep 'zeir bodies close, and 'zey will continuously update us wiz' 'ze information as 'zey find 'eet."

Yao nodded sincerely. "Yes, thank you so much, aru. I don't know what we'd do without you, but is this case really that important, aru?"

"_Oui_. You see, 'zere 'as been a strange rise in deaths recently, and so 'ze Agency 'ees taking into account every single odd death out 'zere. 'Zis will be filed for future reference as well. We appreciate you informing us."

"Of course, aru! It's my job!"

Francis smirked at his fervour; it was oddly comforting to him. Ah, how he wished he had that sense of dedication, but… really, if anything else was added to him, it would be too unfair to the rest of the world, no? "But, between you and me, _monsieur_, does 'zere 'appen to be any information you left out of 'ze report?"

Yao frowned as he pondered on the question, before he perked up and snapped his fingers. "I don't know, it might not be much, but there was a witness just before the killings, aru. She said that she saw someone come into the building – not too tall but definitely built, she said – and it was quiet, aru. She didn't think it was anything suspicious, of course. It was quiet for about ten minutes, she said, but then after that, the screaming started, aru. I don't know if that's relevant, though, aru…"

"_Oui_, 'zat is certainly odd. 'Eet adds more mystery to 'zis killer; what was 'e doing in 'zose ten minutes? Why did 'e not strike instantly? _S'il vous plait_, speak to 'zat witness, and tell 'er 'zat an artist will come over tonight to draw what she saw."

"Will do, aru! Thank you very much, sir!"

Francis smiled, extending a hand that the other took heartily. "My pleasure, _monsieur. _Be careful and-"

A loud, honking sound came from his left, and he turned to face an irritated blonde punching the steering wheel horn. Francis chuckled, waving happily to the other who returned the gesture with a hard glare. With a nod to the Chinese policeman, he sauntered over to the police car… in no hurry.

After all, it was _so _much more amusing that way.

* * *

><p>Now, what to wear, what to wear? Pacing in front of a full-length mirror, Francis clicked his tongue and shook his head over what seemed to be the hundredth item he had tried on. How could there be <em>nothing <em>good to wear? He wailed in desperation; it was his wardrobe, and yet, there was nothing suitable at all for tonight? What had gotten into him! Skimming the bright tangle of clothes on the rack, he realized that he had worn them all at least twice, and he shook his head; now, that simply would _not _do. It was an unspoken rule in the Bonnefoy residence that unless it was _absolutely necessary_, outfits must not be recycled. And, on the occasion that they had to be, it was absolutely vital that they not be paired together in a similar fashion as they had been the first time. It was something he repeated to Matthieu repeatedly; at least the boy would grow up to dress sharp, smart and most importantly, _flashy_, like his father.

Nothing could have made him prouder.

…That, or a new pair of cardigans.

Flicking through the hangers, Francis ended up sighing resignedly as the grim fingers of truth reached out to him; it was useless, absolutely useless! He realized now that he hadn't yet gone on his weekly shopping spree, one that had been scheduled two days ago. That was the day that he had some rather important "business" to attend to, and not to mention, it would have been extremely rude of him to leave a lady in the lurch like that, especially when Carrie's eyes seemed to beg for him to please her… What kind of monster would he be? _Non_, that had been the right choice. He would simply make up for it tomorrow; that is, unless there was work to be done.

Sadly, there _was_ always work to be done, but being the Director and all, that had to come with a few advantages, didn't it? Yes, yes, surely they would understand if he called in sick for a fashion emergency, would they not? Ah, well, even if they did not, he wouldn't show. Nothing would come between Francis Bonnefoy and a shopping spree. Nothing!

Finally (grudgingly) deciding on a set of a pink, collared, long-sleeved blouse that very well extended past his wrist and some black dress pants (noted, of course, that the first time he'd used this blouse was with a pair of rather conspicuous capris that drew attention towards places _other _than his face; ah, but that was a remarkably successful night), the male surveyed himself meticulously in the mirror. There was still something… missing, despite the strip of glitter that marked the blouse across his torso, spelling out various French words that shone like disco balls when just placed under the right light. It just wasn't _moving_, wasn't _obvious _enough, and when Francis Bonnefoy did not have all eyes on him in a room, then there was something very apocalyptic about the matter.

And so, he did the only thing he could do for now: mutter a silent prayer of mercy to God, sparing the women (and men, he wasn't sexist!) the misfortune of being depraved of his looks tonight. Oh, have mercy on their poor, wandering souls.

Adjusting his collar and folding up the sleeves on each side twice, Francis cast himself a somewhat satisfactory smile. Even if he wasn't at his best today, he would definitely be catching some eyes tonight. He just hoped it wouldn't be one of Matthieu's teachers… Actually, that wouldn't be too bad. The boy deserved himself some high A's.

* * *

><p>It was so eerily quiet on his drive to Sherwood Middle School (note: <em>drive<em>; he had borrowed one of the company's cars. If he had to take the public transportation one last time, he couldn't guarantee his best performance that night and really, who wanted to see a half-alive Frenchman?). Even fiddling with the radio on the bright blue Chevrolet Corvette, there still seemed to be a dull humming in the background that the music could not satisfy. He couldn't quite place his finger on what was now lacking, but he supposed it would come to him later.

Ah… but perhaps it was just the laughter of women in the backseat?

The Bonnefoys lived quite a ways from the school, and so he had arrived just about on the nick of time for when the parent-teacher conferences started. As usual, he was usually called down for these things due to Matthieu's outstanding schoolwork (courtesy of the _Papa_, of course), more often than not for his artistic prestige. No doubt the teachers would once more want to discuss accelerating the boy a grade or two, but he wouldn't do it. Obviously, he wanted his son on for bigger and better things, but the boy was just so shy and vulnerable that the sudden shock coming from a whole new environment might destabilize him.

He wouldn't have his _petite ange_ hurt that way, not over his dead body.

After hearing the satisfying beep that the car emitted after ensuring its locked doors, Francis turned heel and made his way down the main entrance of the school, where light and laughter – as well as other parents (ah, but positive thinking made him see the females as _widows_) – gathered into a crowd. He reached the iron doors just a step ahead of a couple, whose daughter was getting visibly irate with their slow pace and was dashing forward in all her childlike wonder. She was definitely a few years younger than Matthieu, and if the mother's running to keep up with her was any indication, she was probably still in the third grade, or so.

Time for some magic.

Opening the door smoothly, having timed it just right so as the woman would be in front of it when he had, Francis offered her a suave wave and a small nod of his head as in a bow, turning on a megawatt smile that would shame the sun. "Ah, let me get 'zat for you, _mademoiselle_. 'Zere is no need to exert your pretty self, _non?_"

The woman visibly faltered, having dropped the binders that she had secured in her arm. It was a little too easy, in Francis' opinion, but it was an urge he could not resist, like an itch he could not scratch. She was flustered, no doubt about it, as it took her a good few seconds to realize what she had dropped, and when she did, she bent so robotically that it was so laughably awkward. Francis had to almost shove his fist into his mouth so as to avoid laughing.

"Ah, let me." Bending down, he gathered the mess into his arms, arranged them, before handing them back to the female, who could only stutter a muttered "thanks". She then proceeded to hurry into the door, but not before giving Francis a quick look behind her back, the flush in her cheeks becoming more prominent as he laughed and winked at her. She almost bumped into someone else again.

The woman's husband, no doubt, followed through the door that his wife had passed, which was still being held aloft by the Frenchman. He shot the blonde a bitter glance – one that seemed so shockingly familiar, but from _where_, he couldn't quite place – before hurrying after the woman he loved… who was so obviously enamoured by him. Ah, the joys of romance. _Non_, _non_, even Francis Bonnefoy knew not to come between the driving arms of love… sometimes.

Francis prepared to move inside the doors as well, but on a whim, he decided to take the back way in. He wasn't quite sure what possessed him to do it, but a tug in his gut told him to go around and take the back route. He supposed that if it came to him that logically, he had no choice but to comply. Plus, it was his chance to make a showy entrance. He scoffed; the front door was _so _yesterday.

The male was familiar enough with the school to know that he would find the large playground by the back, and soon enough, he did. It was like an abandoned forest of twisted metals in the shape of seesaws and monkey bars, swings and tire swings. It was unfortunate, but the lack of children and laughter in it made it seem so depressing, so much so that he couldn't bear to look at it for another second. However, as he turned to avoid the dilapidated mini-village, Francis heard a hushed muttering, a string of curse words that were barely intelligible.

Curiosity escalating, he followed the sound that grew louder as he approached the trees from where the tire sets hung. He hadn't noticed the figure, half-squatting and his back hunched over to him in the pale darkness due to the fact that the tree's shadow had completely enveloped him. But now that he did, he could see that it was no doubt a student here, blonde hair matted roughly and somehow still evenly around his head. The metal of glasses could be seen wrapped around his ears as he moved slightly, and Francis gave a start.

"Matthieu?"

The boy jumped, startled, and this time, he could swear he heard the words "what the hell!" coming from the boy's mouth, before he turned and stood up. Now again, it was the man's turn to be shocked. Expecting the lavender eyes of his cupcake, he was met with the hardened, but somehow still willowy sky blue eyes of a teenager. _Non_, this was not Matthieu, if not for both the hair that was horribly dry and unkempt and the fact that he had just sworn. His boy was clean and soft-spoken; never would he curse like this. Still, it was interesting to him how this one looked almost _exactly _like his son, save for the few subtle differences.

The boy's eyes searched his face, as though looking for something, but not finding what he wanted there, he relaxed, but still glaring. Oh, the glare, the glare. Francis smirked; he was getting a lot of those today. The boy seemed to take this as an insult, as he stomped a foot forward, causing an errant cowlick on his hair to bob slightly. "What are you laughing at? And who're you supposed to be?" Francis couldn't help but note a slight accent in his voice, but it was so horribly garbled that he couldn't make heads or tails out of it.

"_Rien du tout_. Calm down, _gosse_," the male said, lifting his hands up and trying to calm the boy. How _rude_, the parents must be _so _proud. "I am only a parent 'ere."

The boy sighed, and shook his head, before taking a deep breath and staring up at the Frenchman with sturdy eyes, not the apologetic ones that he had expected, which made his words less convincing. "Ah, yeah, right, sorry man. You just surprised me there." He looked down, brushing the dirt that was clinging to his knees, before he restored eye contact with the taller.

"Think nothing of 'eet, my boy," Francis said, nodding. "So why are you out 'ere?"

The boy shrugged, fidgeting slightly. "Nothing much, just had some business to take care of." An eyebrow rose – again, another familiar gesture – as he surveyed the male, searching. "How about you? I'm guessing you're here for the conference, so why'd you come out back? You lost or something?"

The Frenchman shook his head. "I wanted to, uh, 'ow do you say 'eet, make a flashy entrance?"

The boy laughed, and it was a sound that melted his heart with its familiarity. Although Matthieu's voice was softer and a pitch higher, it warmed him all the same, and he found himself laughing quietly along. "Yeah, and I suppose the front entrance is overdone, huh?"

"_Oui_."

"Smart move, man, smart move. I like you." He grinned, before jutting out a hand, which the Frenchman promptly took. "Nice to meet 'cha."

"As do I," Francis replied, grinning as well. Well, now wasn't this interesting! Although his former impression of the teen was rude and vile, he had immediately retracted that. He guessed he was just a sucker for a smile and anyone younger than sixteen. He sighed; ah, the things Matthieu did to him. "And 'eet 'ees my pleasure as well."

"So," the boy said, as he turned around briefly and shouldered the backpack that was lying behind him. "Need a tour or something, or can you find your way around just fine?"

"Ah,_ non_, I know my way around fairly well. But _merci beaucoup _for 'ze offer." The boy shrugged dismissively, as though he thought nothing of it. "'Ow about you? Should you not be inside and meeting wiz' your parents?"

The boy blanched, something Francis had noticed was triggered by the word "parents". He decided not to pry, but now that he knew that there was something there, he would not eventually have to attempt to fish it out of the teen. His seductive skills weren't made only for the bed, after all. However, before he could pry on the subject, the other spoke up. "Neh, I wouldn't worry too much about them. Plus, it's only pa_rent_; Mom's not coming." Muttering incoherently, he added, "Obviously."

"I see." An eyebrow arched, but he dismissed it quickly. "Let us go in 'zen, shall we? 'Eet's getting razzer' dark out and I do 'ave to meet my son as well."

"Oh, oh yeah, sure!" Now the picture of a typical teen, Alfred swung his backpack onto his back, before walking forward and gesturing to Francis to lead him forward. The male easily did so, keeping in stride with the somewhat sullen teen. He hadn't missed the hitch in his voice when he had mentioned his mother, or the added sarcasm.

"Anyway, 'ow is your father?" Francis asked after a few seconds of silence, never being one to be surrounded by such (especially in bed, for that was just a sure sign he was failing and Francis Bonnefoy did _not _fail in bed). "'Ow will you find 'im?" He looked around at the throng of people. The better question was, how would he find Matthieu?

"Wouldn't worry about that," the boy said, shrugging. "And my Dad's fine. He's probably looking forward to this more than I am." He snorted, rolling his eyes in that typical teen fashion. "Though I dunno why he is, we always have this crappy thing every semester. I swear, it's like Christmas to him."

Francis chuckled at the little rant, relieved that the boy had answered quite easily. "Well, 'e sounds like an interesting man, no doubt."

"Pft, interesting, hardly," the boy replied, the sarcasm marring his tone. "Definitely _interesting_, though probably not the way you'd describe it. Though, you know, I wish he'd stop acting like a kid around here, so happy and excited. It's freakin' embarrassing, man."

"I am sure 'e means well?"

He snorted. "Doubt it. But, whatever. Can't choose your parents. No matter how _much_ I would _love_ that."

Francis frowned, but he quickly erased the look on his face. Was it really possible that a child could hold this much disdain for his own flesh and blood? He couldn't even fathom what he would do if Matthieu turned around one day and walked away, shunning and disowning him as this boy certainly was. Even the heartache and pain of the past would not hold a candle to that. "Ah, yes, I suppose so," he said, in an effort to seem complacent and empathizing. He decided to change the subject then, just in case. "So, 'ow long have you been in 'zis school for?"

"Hm… let me see," the other replied quickly, as though he too, did not mind the subject change. "Dunno, maybe a year, maybe a little more? I can't really remember, sorry. I don't really care, either."

"Ah, 'eet 'ees no problem. 'Ow are you finding 'eet so far?"

"S'not bad, I guess. School is school, so it sucks, you know?" He laughed. "Homework and all that crap. The only hard part is making friends and whatever, but aside from that, s'ok." He looked up, scanning the corridor before making his way towards a set of doors that hid stairs that led upstairs. "Sorry for bringing you along around here, mister."

Francis waved his hand dismissively. "Pay 'eet no mind! I would love to meet 'zis fazzer' of yours, for 'aving such a charming young man as a son."

The boy snorted, rolling his eyes. "Okay, now that's just creepy, dude. But I can tell you now, don't get your hopes up. Dad's… not exactly the social type." The boy turned the corner, and muttered a quick, "Figures." Opening the doors to the next floor, he peeked around, as though hiding from someone, before he stepped into full view. "Oh, dude, I forgot! Dad would kill me for my manners. Good thing he's not around. I totally forgot to introduce myself!" He held out his hand, grinning. "Name's Alfred Kirkland."

Francis followed suit, before taking the hand and chuckling. "Pleasure to meet you, Alfred. _Je m'appelle _Francis Bonnefoy."

The hand in his grip tightened if for a second, and Alfred's smile slipped ever so slightly. Had he not been paying attention, he would have missed it, as the boy quickly recovered. Francis' eyebrow arched, but before he could inquire, Alfred had spoken. "Oh, dude, that is a bad-ass name. Sorry, I thought I heard your name somewhere before." He shuddered. "Bad memories man, bad memories."

Somehow, Francis went from curious to slightly insulted. Someone out there had a name like _his_? Ugh, but the nerve! Someone was going to have a stern talking to. "_Pas de problème_. And 'ere I thought my name was unique!"

"Guess not, huh?" Alfred offered him a cheesy grin, before his penetrating eyes surveyed the area. They ceased once they landed on the back of a mess of blonde hair, lighter in hue than his own, but similar in style. Well now, Francis knew where _he _got his sense of fashion from. "Oh, there's my dad. You wanted to meet him, right?"

"_Oui_."

"Fine, fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

They approached the male, who still had his back turned to them, having a conversation with someone they could not see. Francis kept his eyes on it; why was it so familiar?

The answer didn't elude him for too long.

Alfred stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Yo', Dad, sorry I'm late."

"It's ok, Al-" The man started with a signature accent, before he turned. Time froze. Francis could have sworn that he could have died laughing from the way the other was staring at him, an expression mixed with confusion, apprehension, surprise and, well, hate (the usual), all done so by his half-agape mouth. "What-?"

Alfred scowled, crossing his arms at the man, clearly oblivious to the atmosphere. "Nice _manners_ there, Dad. And you're the one so anal about it, too. Anyways, wanted to introduce you to this awesome dude. This here's Francis Bonnefoy. And sir," the boy said, turning to him quickly with a ghost of a smile, "this is my dad, Arthur Kirkland."

Next thing he knew, Francis was clutching onto the nearby support for dear life, tears streaming down his cheeks in uncontrollable guffaws.

* * *

><p>"So," Alfred started, before taking a huge bite of a hamburger he had somehow procured out of nowhere magically. "You two-" he made a gesture with his pointer finger in a horizontal line back and forth, as though linking the two men who now sat on a park bench, " – know each other?"<p>

Arthur and Francis spoke at the same time.

"_Oui_", came the slightly amused answer.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, lad!" came the consternating reply, to which Alfred promptly responded with a mental eye roll, but did as he was told. Swallowing, he looked pointedly at his father. "Happy now, Dad?"

"Very much so," Arthur replied, looking at his son with a hint of paternal love before it was quickly erased when he turned his attention to the Frenchman who sat beside him.

Francis had just met the blonde a few minutes back, and after he had successfully recovered from his laughing fit, had gone and retracted his darling Matthieu from Arthur's hands. The uncanny similarity between Matthieu and Alfred was curiously interesting, but he didn't think too much of it. For one, he _knew _for a fact that Matthieu was cuter, smarter and way more superior in all ways, that is, if the sparkling certificate he held in his hand now was any indication.

"Okay, whatever," Alfred said, before waving his hand dismissively and taking another bite out of the burger, completely oblivious of the tension between the two adults. He gave the Frenchman a nod of recognition, before he approached Matthieu who was now playing in the sandbox and was modelling what looked to be a bear. "Hey, Matthew –" Francis winced at the accent that had been rolled into the French name " – bring your award over here and let's play by the monkey bars."

Matthieu looked up with a shy smile on his face – Francis resisted the urge to just hug him right then and there – before nodding and grasping the frail paper to his chest. "_O-oui_, Alfred. _E-est-ce que __v-vous poussez __la b-balançoire __pour moi aujourd'hui?_"

Alfred a glance behind him, one that, at first, looked like anger, but was masked with fondness and exasperation, as though this had been done too many times before. He gestured with his hand to get Matthieu to move faster, before muttering, "English, dude, English."

Francis chuckled, before training his eyes on the Englishman, who was visibly trying to put as much space between him and the other, but without too much success. One could only go so far without falling, after all.

"And just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse, you show up," Arthur started, irritation palpable in his tone.

"'Allo to you too, monsieur _Kirkland_," Francis replied with a smirk, emphasizing on the last name.

"Why are you even here? I thought someone as promiscuous as yourself would have something better to do than stalk someone."

An eyebrow quirked. "Did you just imply 'zat you are not good enough to stalk?" Francis pointed out, before moving himself a few inches towards the other, who, at this point, had already reached his end of the bench. "Because, as you know… you are right." He laughed, earning a scowl from his companion. "And as I 'ave mentioned before, _mon ami_, I 'ave a son 'ere, unless you are blind," Francis pointed out. "Also, if you 'ad told me your last name earlier today, we would not be in 'zis… predicament, _non_?"

Arthur glared at him. "I saw no point in revealing that information. We seem to be going by a first-name basis, regardless, so it was a moot point. And I doubt such a minor obstacle would have stopped someone as idiotically stubborn as you. And, well, now that you know, you can _leave_."

Francis chuckled, making a _tut_ sound while wagging his fingers to and fro. "Uh-uh, _mon britannique_. I 'ave as much right to be 'ere as you do. 'Zoh _why _'zey let just anyone in 'ere without a proper dress theme is beyond me." He purposely eyed the other's outfit, and snorted. Ah, but it was so like Arthur to dress in such a manner; he should have known that the only reason he looked so prim and proper this morning was because it was part of his uniform, something that had been picked out for _him_. The man held little to no fashion sense, a fact that he had noticed on his son, Alfred. He shook his head pityingly; the poor lad would no doubt be subject to mockery in his future years.

"What?" Arthur hissed, glaring at the man (ooh, la, la, like father, like son?). "Are you trying to imply there might be something wrong about my outfit, _sir_?"

"Something, nothing," the Frenchman replied, shrugging. "Everything. I mean, admit 'eet, _mon britannique_, but a _sweater vest_. Really? Did you pick out 'zat outfit in 'ze dark or something?"

The Briton huffed, folding his arms across his chest as though covering it up. "And what the bloody hell is so wrong with one? I happen to think it's quite decent."

"And 'zere 'ees a sure sign 'eet 'ees not. _Mon ami_, I 'ave seen better fashion sense _sur les chiens __sauvages._" He stated this as a fact, shrugging and laughing internally at the British man's expense, who so clearly did not understand-

"I don't need to be a genius to know when I am being mocked, you _frog. _But I, at least, use my brain for things that bloody well matter." He sneered at the other, before it was replaced with a different expression. Softer, but definitely not nicer. "Well, then," Arthur said, suddenly calm in tone, causing alarm bells to ring in Francis' head. The expression on his face was bluntly sarcastic and mocking, and although this was done unconsciously or not, hugged his arms closer to his chest. "If you believe yourself to be such an expert, why don't _you _show me this "fashion sense" of yours?"

It was there, plain and visible.

He could smell a challenge.

And everyone knew that Francis Bonnefoy was not someone who backed down in the face of one. Seductively smiling back, a contrast of cool and hot, he muttered, "_J'aimerais._"

Oh no, he _didn't._

* * *

><p>AN: Hoo-boy, here's another chapter from yours truly! I don't think this was as long as the one before, but if it is, sue me. o.o I'm kind of out of it, and I've been writing like mad, because WalMart is not helping me at all. So please give me some credit here, and if not, well, Francis will avenge me! Better lock your closets and windows tonight, ladies and gents!

So here, I have again alternated a daily life chapter and an action chapter, because realistically, they can't always be out there fighting bad guys. But in this way, if you're more of a "no danger" person, you'd like it, and if you're more of the "action" person, then you'd be looking forward to the next one.

Also, here's more of a glimpse of teenage!Alfred. Little bugger, isn't he? But he seems nice enough to Matthieu, or at least I hope it came out as that. Even by his mannerisms, I tried to make it so he does notice Francis' little kid, and doesn't pick on him (because let's face it, with Matthieu's looks and demeanour, it isn't surprising he is being picked on, poor lad). But if you don't see this, no biggie because their relationship will be mentioned more on later!

Also, WHOO, shopping. Can't _wait _to see this.

Finally, what I should note are my updates. I'm probably starting to sound a little whiny and erratic, but I'm sorry! I don't think I can handle weekly updates. I'm not going to say they'll _never _happen, but looking at it right now, if I can't handle it with work when I have days off, it's even less likely with university (I will be attending, first year! in September) everyday. So I'm not going to give a definite timeline as to when I'll release chaps (maybe even twice a week, if my muse is good), but I will limit it so you will not go two weeks MAX without an update. Hope this suffices for everyone, and in a way, it has to. I have fun writing and if I feel like someone is continually breathing down my neck, it takes the fun away and my muse dies.

/breathes AND THAT WAS MY RANT. Without further ado, fail Google Translations!

__ses __beaux cheveux - __his beautiful hair

_Rien du tout - _Nothing

_E-est-ce que __v-vous poussez __la b-balançoire __pour moi aujourd'hui? - _Are you going to push the swing for me today?

_les chiens __sauvages - _wild dogs

_J'aimerais _- I would love to


End file.
